THE 
llNPRETENDERS 

I  ANNE  WARWICK 


THE  UNPRETENDERS 


BY    THE    SAME    AUTHOR 

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JOHN  LANE  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK 


THE 
UNPRETENDERS 


BY 


ANNE  WARWICK       ••>  - 

AUTHOR  OF 
"VICTORY  LAW,"  "THE  CHALK  LINE,"  "COMPENSATION,"  ETC. 


C. 


NEW  YORK 

JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 
MCMXVI 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY 
JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 


Press  of 

J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Company 
New  York  U.  S.  A. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.    ANNE — JUST  A  PLAIN  WOMAN .  9 

II.    TIMOTHY — ONLY  A  WRITER 33 

in.    GLADYS-MARIE — MERELY  A  MAID 59 

IV.    SHEILA — SIMPLY  A  SOCIETY  PERSO  ; 80 

V.    WARNER — WHAT  ELSE  BUT  A  WAG        104 

VI.    CHALMERS — CLEARLY  A  CLUBMAN 126 

VII.    Prx — PURELY  A  PHILANTHROPIST      .     .     .     .""".     .  147 

VIII.    RICHARD — No  MORE  THAN  KING 178 

IX.    LUCIA — A  MERE  WIFE 205 

X.    ROGER — PLAINLY  AN  IDLER  ........  227 


2138723 


THE  UNPRETENDERS 


THE  UNPRETENDERS 


ANNE— JUST  A  PLAIN  WOMAN 

"PERHAPS  Anne "  suggested  Michael. 

"Why,  yes — certainly,  Anne,"  seconded  Doro 
mea,  eagerly.  "Of  course  Timothy's  our  friend,  but 
Anne  knows  that  we  have  just  this  last  chapter  and 
— all  we  need  do  is  to  ask  her." 

"Um-m.    What  is  she  doing?" 

"She  was  trimming  a  hat  on  the  west  porch  a  few 
minutes  ago." 

"Trimming  a  hat?  Why,  she  never  has  one  on 
her  head !"  Anne's  husband  looked  at  his  unfinished 
manuscript  aggrieved. 

"I  think  it  was  Gladys-Marie's  hat."  Doromea 
struggled  back  of  plot  to  remember.  "It  had  a  look 

9 


10         THE  UNPRETENDERS 

of  Gladys-Marie — an  incoherent  sort  of  cloche,  you 
know,  that  was  meant  to  have  been  a  sunbonnet." 

Michael  laughed.  "If  you  weren't  my  sister  I 
should  be  afraid  of  you,"  he  said,  looking  at  her 
admiringly.  "You  see  too  deep — even  in  hats." 

"But  I  cannot  trim  them,"  answered  Doromea, 
seriously.  "Anne  can — she  can  make  the  most  de- 
licious hat  out  of  an  old  square  of  lace  or  some- 
thing. I  can't  even  tack  a  plume  in  place  and  have 
it  look  like  anything  but  a  curled  poker." 

"You  can  only  help  write  books,"  smiled  Michael, 
"and  this  one" — he  smoothed  the  thick  pile  of  closely 
written  paper — "is  the  best  you've  ever  helped  to 
write.  Er — suppose  we  just  go  and  speak  to  Anne." 

The  two  figures,  ludicrously  alike  in  spite  of  the 
tall  stoop  of  one  and  the  trim  roundness  of  the 
other,  hurried  around  the  house  to  the  west  porch. 

"Is  the  book  finished?"  asked  Anne,  posing  but- 
tercups with  an  upward  glance  of  amazement. 

"No — that  is,  not  quite — just  that  one  more  chap- 
ter, you  know;  but " 

"It  must  be  finished  to-day,"  concluded  Doromea, 


ANNE— JUST  A  PLAIN  WOMAN    11 

firmly,  "and — the  post  came  a  few  minutes  ago 
and  there  was  a  letter  from  Timothy." 

"Yes?"  Anne's  voice  warmed.  She  had  never 
seen  Timothy,  but  Michael  and  Doromea  had  made 
him  sound  very  nice. 

"Timothy,"  said  Doromea,  mildly  indignant, 
"with  all  his  excellences,  has  an  abominable  habit 
of  not  arriving  psychologically  at  all."  (Michael 
beamed — there  was  not  a  phrase  of  Doromea's  turn- 
ing whose  cleverness  he  ever  lost.)  "He  is  coming 
this  afternoon  on  the  four-thirty,"  plumped  Doro- 
mea, with  no  cleverness  at  all. 

"I  had  better  meet  him  with  the  cart  when  I  go 
to  Aunt  Hester's,"  Anne  reflected,  "unless — perhaps 
you  had  planned  to  meet  him  yourself,  Dorry?" 

"No" — Doromea  magnanimously  overlooked  the 
abbreviation  of  her  cherished  name — "no,  I  hadn't. 
Of  course  you've  never  seen  him,  but " 

There's  no  one  else  to  get  off,"  Anne  answered, 
simply. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that.  I  meant  you  have 
never  met  him,  or  anything."  Doromea  always 


12          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

floundered  in  her  explanations  to  Anne — perhaps 
because  she  found  it  necessary  to  make  so  many. 

"Well,  that  needn't  worry  her  any,"  put  in 
Michael.  "Timothy  will  make  her  feel  at  ease  right 
away."  And  he  smiled  at  Anne  with  an  affection 
back  of  which  lurked  an  impatience  to  be  off  and 
at  work,  now  that  incidental  disturbances  were  dis- 
posed of. 

"Then  you'll  meet  the  four-thirty,"  reminded 
Doromea,  impressively. 

"But  you're  coming  in  to  lunch?"  called  Anne, 
seeing  them  about  to  start  off.  "It's  almost  time." 

"I  don't  know  if  we'll  bother  with  lunch  to-day," 
returned  Michael,  absently.  "You  can  ring,  but 
don't  wait  for  us  if  we  don't  come." 

"Gladys-Marie  wants  to  go  to  the  city,"  com- 
menced Anne,  but  the  sharp  corner  of  the  porch 
cut  off  her  audience;  "and  I  must  read  to  Aunt 
Hester  and  shell  the  peas,"  she  finished.  "Gladys- 
Marie!" 

"Yes'm — yes,  my  lady."  There  was  but  one 
woman  in  the  world  to  whom  Gladys-Marie  would 


ANNE— JUST  A  PLAIN  WOMAN    13 

acknowledge  such  subservience,  but  one  woman  be- 
fore whom  she  would  appear  instantly — and  awe- 
somely. 

"Here's  the  hat,  Gladys-Marie.  Run  along  with 
it  and  have  a  good  time,  only  come  back  so  that 
you  can  get  dinner ;  and,  Gladys-Marie,  perhaps  you 
had  better  leave  a  little  lunch  on  the  buffet.  I  don't 
believe  the  others  will  be  quite  ready  to  eat  with 
me." 

"Never  are,"  muttered  Gladys-Marie,  handling 
the  hat  as  though  it  were  Venetian  glass.  "Sit  with 
their  noses  glued  over  an  old  pad  o'  paper  all  day 
long,  'n'  the  house  'n'  the  meals  'n'  Lady  Elinore 
'n'  me  c'n  go  to — c'n  go  hang,  's  what  I  mean,"  she 
apologized  to  Anne.  "Oh,  I  know  you  think  I'm 
the  pert  one  with  me  nerve  carried  round  in  me 
side  pocket,  but  I  c'n  see,  I  can;  'n'  if  ever  I  see 
perruls  cast  before  swine — Gee!  it's  plainer  'n  any 
Sunday-school  chromo  ever  tried  to  be." 

She  looked  back  at  the  pearl  in  question  with  a 
kind  of  wrathful  tenderness.  But  the  Lady  Elinore, 
apparently,  had  not  heard  a  word;  only  the  soft 


14          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

part  in  her  warm  gold  hair  was  visible  above  the 
sewing  in  her  hands. 

"She's  awful  sweet,"  sighed  the  worldling,  pity- 
ingly, "  'n'  twice  as  smart  with  hands  as  I  am.  But 
— my  word!  she  ain't  clever!  The  way  she  lets 
herself  get  done  an'  don't  even  squirm  about  it 
pickles  me!" 

The  fussy  little  train  steamed  off  with  an  im- 
portant backward  lunge,  as  though  to  say,  "There! 
I  did  the  very  best  I  could  for  you!"  And  Anne, 
who  alone  with  the  station-master  saw  what  it  had 
deposited,  could  understand  how  it  lingered  on  the 
siding  and  switched  back  and  forth  several  times 
after  it  had  given  every  pretence  of  departing.  For 
the  spare,  shortish  person  it  had  set  down  at  the 
small  station  made  of  the  station  a  suddenly  very 
wonderful  place  indeed. 

"You  are  Timothy,"  said  Anne,  gravely,  going 
forward.  "I  came  to  meet  you — I  am  Anne,  you 
know." 

"I  am  very  glad  to  know."    When  the  spare  per- 


ANNE— JUST  A  PLAIN  WOMAN    15 

son  smiled  like  that  the  station-master  straightened 
his  tie  and  began  to  whistle.  "For  you  to  come  to 
meet  me  is  the  most  cordial  introduction  we  could 
possibly  have  had.  Is  that  your  cart?" 

"Yes."  Since  Timothy  mentioned  it,  Anne 
thought  it  was  not  such  a  bad  cart,  after  all.  "If 
you  will  put  your  bag  inside  I  will  get  the  milk-can." 

"Oh,  /'//  get  the  milk-can,  miss,"  offered  the 
station-master,  hastily,  as  though  he  were  not  in 
the  habit  of  lounging  over  his  pipe  while  he  watched 
Anne  carry  it  night  and  morning.  "There  you  are !" 
He  swung  it  up  with  a  flourish. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Anne,  and  her  eyes  were  bluer 
than  before.  "Did  you  hear  him  call  me  miss?" 
she  asked  Timothy  almost  before  they  rattled  off. 
"He  thinks  I'm  a  girl." 

"I  should  say  he  was  of  a  sound  psychology," 
pronounced  Timothy.  "I  suppose  he  hasn't  seen 
Michael  following  you  about,  then?" 

"No."  Anne  drew  the  reins  a  shade  tighter. 
"You  see,  Michael  has  been  finishing  his  book — 
he  and  Doromea,  I  mean ;  and  that  keeps  them  very 


16          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

busy.  I  come  down  for  the  milk  by  myself — unless 
sometimes  Gladys-Marie  comes  along." 

"And  Gladys-Marie  is " 

"My  maid.  She  is  very  fond  of  dime  novels  and 
chews  gum.  I  think  you  will  like  her." 

"I  am  sure  of  it."  Timothy's  gray  eyes  had  bent 
a  little  closer  upon  Anne's  serene  naturalness.  "Do 
Michael  and  Doromea  like  her?" 

"They  have  no  time  for  her.  They  are  too  busy 
making  up  characters  for  the  book." 

"I  suppose  you  help  at  that,  too " 

"I?"  Anne's  blue  gaze  marvelled  at  him.  "Oh, 
no — I  am  not  clever  enough  to  help  Michael.  Doro- 
mea is  the  only  one  who  does  that.  Isn't  she  pretty 
— Doromea?" 

"Yes,"  said  Timothy,  so  fulsomely  that  any 
woman  would  have  known  at  once.  "But  I  wish 
she  would  stop  being  clever,"  he  added,  after  a 
minute. 

"Men  always  want  wives  who  are  not  clever, 
don't  they?"  Anne  meditated.  "So  many  people 


ANNE— JUST  A  PLAIN  WOMAN   17 

said  that  when  Michael  married  me.  Are  the  wo- 
men in  your  stories  clever,  Mr. — Timothy?" 

"Never,"  asserted  Mr.  Timothy,  solemnly — and 
traitorously  to  Doromea. 

"They — they  are  just  plain  women?" 

"Just  plain  women.  That  is  why  women  never 
buy  the  magazines  they're  in." 

"But  men  do?" 

"Oh,  yes — men  who  have  married  the  clever  ones 
like  to  remember  that  there  are  the  other  kind.  And 
men  who  have  married  the  other  kind — your  kind" 
(this  time  it  was  Anne  who  straightened  the  little 
frill  at  her  throat) — "like  to  be  reminded  how  sen- 
sibly they  have  done  for  themselves." 

"Michael  does  not  read  your  stories,"  said  Anne, 
turning  a  sharp  corner  carefully.  "He  says  he  does 
not  understand  them  in  you." 

Timothy's  quaint  twisty  mouth  grew  twistier  for 
a  moment.  Then  he  said,  "That  is  because  he  does 
not  understand  me  in  them — or  you,  or  anybody 
else  one  sees  day  after  day — and  never  sees  at  all." 

"One  doesn't  see  you  day  after  day,"  objected 


18          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

Anne.  "If  one  never  saw  you  at  all,  though,  one 
would  always  be  sure  that  one  had — that  one  had 
wanted  to."  She  looked  up  at  his  glasses  without 
coquetry.  "Doromea  and  Michael  have  ta4ked  a 
great  deal  about  you." 

Timothy  groaned.  "And  said  clever  things  about 
me,  I  suppose — epigrams?"  He  waited,  as  for  the 
worst. 

"I  think  so.  Yes,  Doromea  said  you  were  a  liter- 
ary Roycrofter — that  is  an  epigram,  isn't  it?" 

"I'm  afraid  so — or  a  Mission-made  metaphor. 
I  wish" — Timothy's  voice  grew  wistful — "she  had 
said  she  hated  me." 

"Said  she  hated  you?  Oh!  I  see" — Anne  re- 
membered— "you  want  her  to  be  in  love  with  you." 

"She  is  in  love  with  me,"  admitted  Timothy, 
modestly.  "Only  she  thinks  it's  beneath  her — being 
in  love  at  all,  I  mean.  She  thinks  it  isn't  subtle." 

"I  suppose  it  isn't,"  Anne  meditated,  allowing  the 
horse  to  walk  in  zigzag  laziness  across  the  road  and 
back.  "That  must  be  why  I  don't  mind  it,"  she 
decided,  as  they  came  in  sight  of  the  house.  "I've 


ANNE— JUST  A  PLAIN  WOMAN   19 

been  in  love  ever  since  Michael  asked  me  to  try 
to  be — and  a  long  time  before  that." 

Timothy  looked  at  her  again  more  closely. 
"Michael  should  write  better  books,"  he  murmured, 
getting  down  to  open  the  gate. 

"So  you  really  didn't  mind  our  not  meeting  you?" 
Doromea's  anxiety  was  most  appealingly  clothed  in 
a  rose-sprigged  frock.  "You  see,  Anne  offered,  so 
we  thought " 

"You  thought  you  couldn't  be  more  gracious  to 
me,"  finished  Timothy,  glad  that  Doromea's  hair 
curled  over  the  ears  as  unsubtly  as  ever.  "By  the 
way,  where  is  Anne?"  He  looked  about  the  wide 
homely  porch,  where  a  work-bag  and  a  tennis  rac- 
quet spoke  of  some  one,  evidently  just  a  plain 
woman. 

"She  is  getting  dinner."  Doromea  shifted  un- 
comfortably to  another  chair.  "I  wish  I  could  help 
her,  but  I  can't  even  boil  an  egg — and  not  have  it 
crack!  Anne  is  so  practical." 

"And  so  impractical,"  appended  Michael.  "Fancy 
letting  Gladys-Marie  go  to  the  city  when  Timothy 


20          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

was  coming!  And  of  course  there  was  no  one  by 
whom  to  send  the  manuscript,  once  we  had  finished 
it.  Anne  had  gone  over  to  read  to  Aunt  Hester, 
and  Doromea  hadn't  the  least  idea  how  to  hitch  up." 

"Neither  had  you,"  added  Doromea,  a  little 
warmly. 

"Naturally  not — having  been  brought  up  in  the 
city  with  you." 

"Poor  people!"  Timothy's  gray  eyes  commis- 
erated them.  "But  now  that  the  book  is  done,  you 
can  begin  to  learn  something?" 

"I  mean  to  find  myself,"  said  Doromea,  loftily. 
"And  I  shall  have  to  go  off  alone  for  the  whole 
day  in  order  to  do  it." 

"That  would  be  very  rude — and  no  help  at  all  to 
you.  Why  not  take  Gladys-Marie  along  ?"  Timothy 
meant  it — though  he  had  never  seen  Gladys-Marie. 

"I  would,  if  she  were  not  so  typical."  Doromea 
was  quite  serious.  "Nowadays  one  must  insist  upon 
the  unusual,  or  grow  usual  oneself.  Even  one's 
maid  is  an  influence." 

Michael  looked  triumphantly  at  Timothy — they 


ANNE— JUST  A  PLAIN  WOMAN  21 

were  used  to  holding  some  argument  together  as  to 
Doromea's  cleverness. 

"I  see — then  how  important  we  usual  ones  are, 
aren't  we? — for  if  it  wasn't  for  us,  all  of  you'd 
be  usual,  too !"  Timothy's  smile  included  Anne,  who 
came  out  just  at  that  moment,  completely  covered 
with  a  checked  blue  apron. 

"Anne — Timothy!"  Doromea's  voice  showed 
what  she  thought  of  aprons. 

"Yes,  I  know — I  met  him."  Anne  sat  down,  in- 
nocently, and  began  to  fan  her  flushed  face.  "Din- 
ner's ready,"  she  added,  as  an  incident. 

Both  Doromea  and  Michael  jumped  up  at  once. 
"We  didn't  have  a  bite  of  lunch,"  cried  Michael, 
plumping  down  into  his  chair  and  attacking  the 
olives  rather  crudely.  "By  the  time  we  had  finished 

the  book,  you  had  gone  to  Aunt  Hester's "  he 

turned  to  Anne. 

"Yes,"  said  Anne,  setting  down  the  water-pitcher. 
"There  was  lunch  on  the  buffet,  you  know." 

"I  told  you !"  Doromea  triumphed  at  Michael.  "I 


22          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

said  Anne  wouldn't  forget — but  you  wouldn't  even 
go  and  look." 

"Oh,  well "  Michael's  voice  was  a  shade  less 

agreeable  than  usual.  "I  knew  she  was  busy  in  the 
garden  all  morning,  and  trimming  Gladys-Marie's 
hat — I  didn't  suppose  she'd  think.  Anyway,  what 
does  it  matter?  The  dinner's  tremendously  good. 
Come,  Timmie,  tell  us  what  you've  been  doing — 
more  Plain  Stories?" 

"Not  so  many  more."  Timothy  wondered  inad- 
vertently if  Michael  had  put  Anne's  elbows  in  the 
book — they  were  exceedingly  nice  elbows.  "You 
see,  there  aren't  so  many  Plain  People  left  to  write 
about.  Every  one's  going  in  for  being  extraordi- 
nary, these  days — psychic  or  something."  He  looked 
at  Doromea  inquiringly. 

"I  go  to  New  Thought  lectures,"  defended  Doro- 
mea, promptly. 

"Do  you?"  Timothy  asked  Anne. 

"I  don't  have  time — besides,  I'm  afraid  I  wouldn't 
understand.  I  never  went  to  college  or  anything." 

"Oh !"  said  Timothy,  approvingly. 


ANNE— JUST  A  PLAIN  WOMAN   23 

"You  see,  Anne" — Doromea  interposed  with  a 
quick  kindliness — "Anne  always  lived  in  the  country 
before  she  came  to  New  York  to  keep  house  for  her 
grandfather — that  winter  we  met  her — so  she  isn't 
as  interested  in  the  new  mental  trend.  You  must 
take  it  up  when  we  go  back,  though,  dear;  after 
all,  it's  the  thing  that  counts — one's  psychic  edu- 
cation." 

"I  should  say  that  depended  on  what  one  counts 
with."  But  Timothy  said  it  so  low  that  nobody 
heard  him. 

"Psychic  education "  Michael  crumpled  his 

roll  thoughtfully.  "In  the  book  there's  a  woman 
(Faero's  her  name)  who  is  absolutely  the  most  per- 
fect psychic  completion  you  ever  encountered.  Sim- 
ply a  ripping  creation,  isn't  she,  Doromea?" 

"Wonderful!"  Doromea  sighed  admiration;  then 
she  smiled,  and  all  her  dimples  came  out,  which 
was  to  Timothy  much  more  important.  "You  see, 
this  woman,  this  Faero,  has  a  way  of  seeing  things 
— the  most  subtle,  evanescent  sort  of  things  that 
nobody  could  possibly  see " 


24 

"Eh?"  Timothy  bolted,  involuntarily. 

"And  it's  she  who  gathers  up  all  the  threads  of 
the  plot — there  really  isn't  so  much  plot,  Michael — " 

"No,  not  so  much  plot "  Michael  paused 

vaguely  over  a  stalk  of  asparagus.  "People  are  sick 
of  plot  nowadays.  They  want  something  less  appar- 
ent, less " 

"So  this  Faero  is  a  sort  of  psychic  gleaner,"  went 
on  Doromea,  eagerly.  "All  the  subleties  other  peo- 
ple let  fall  unnoticed  she  picks  up  and  treasures, 
until  the  mental  of  her,  the  infinitely  fine  sensitive 
perception  that's  stretched  to  the  vibration  of  a  thin, 
thin  silken  string " 

"Gee  whiz !  Now  ain't  I  the  late  one !  Me  walkin'- 
papers  'n'  the  cashless  mitt's  all  I  deserve,  I  guess — 
but  honest,  Lady  Elinore,  if  y'  could  uv  seen  that 
Theatorium  show!  My  word!  it  had  Sothern  'n' 
Marlowe  lookin'  like  two  ice-cream  freezers — 
yes'm!  Why,  when  that  girl,  Phylo-Floretta, 
jumped  out  of  a  forty-six  story  buildin',  into  her 
waitin'  lover's  arms,  with  Popper  hangin'  out  the 
winder  threatenin'  air-ships — my  eye!  I  says  to 


ANNE— JUST  A  PLAIN  WOMAN   25 

Mamie,  I  says,  this  may  be  riskay,  but  it's  life,  I 
says!  'N'  y'  c'n  take  it  from  me  it  was,  too — oh!" 
From  the  window  Gladys-Marie  became  suddenly 
aware  of  new  audience,  and  hunted  for  her  vanity- 
bag  to  see  if  her  hat  was  on  straight. 

"A  quaint  person,"  commented  Doromea,  when 
the  buttercup  hat  had  passed  on,  to  the  tune  of  The 
Rosary,  "though  a  trifle  hectic  in  her  descriptive 
parts." 

Michael  glanced  again  triumphantly  at  Timothy. 

"I  must  go  and  see  her  about  breakfast,"  said 
Anne,  rising. 

"I  thought  you  would  play  to  us."  Michael's  voice 
was  wistful  as  a  child's.  "Anne  always  plays  to 
us  after  dinner,"  he  explained  to  Timothy. 

"I  don't  play,"  disclaimed  Anne;  "I  only  hum  a 
little.  There — tuck  yourself  up — I'll  play  for  a 
while."  She  brought  his  pipe  over  to  the  hammock, 
and  arranged  two  chairs  undemonstratively  tangent, 
before  she  went  in  to  the  piano. 

Timothy,  who  had  wandered  into  the  yard,  gazed 


26          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

at  Michael;  he  was  puffing  peacefully  as  the  simple 
little  Irish  ballad  came  to  emphasize  his  comfort. 

"Does  the  Lady  Elinore  always  sing  like  that?" 
Timothy  asked  Gladys-Marie,  who  appeared  (quite 
without  reason)  on  the  side  porch. 

Gladys-Marie  listened.  "I  guess  it's  you,"  she 
said,  finally,  fumbling  with  her  pompadour.  "Some- 
times she  sounds  kind  a  sad,  but — I  guess  nobody 
could  help  pinchin'  their  gladness  a  little  when 

you're  around "  Her  eyes  under  the  pompadour 

went  from  Timothy  to  the  two  chairs  Anne  had 
left.  One  of  them  was  occupied.  "Her  hair  curls 
real  pretty,  don't  it?"  she  added,  generously — for 
Doromea  and  Gladys-Marie  had  a  vegetable  under- 
standing only.  "An*  that  rose-color  is  awful  be- 
comin' " 

Timothy  threw  away  his  light  and  turned  toward 
the  rose-sprigged  chair.  "It  is  a  pretty  dress,  isn't 
it?" 

"Lady  Elinore  made  it,"  returned  Gladys-Marie, 
proudly.  "Sure  it's  a  pretty  dress !" 


ANNE— JUST  A  PLAIN  WOMAN   27 

Doromea  and  Michael  and  Timothy  sat  on  the 
porch.  "I  can't  think  it  has  been  really  two  weeks 
since  you've  been  here."  From  the  steps  Doromea 
looked  at  Timothy  a  bit  dolefully.  "But  it  must 
be — since  it  was  two  weeks  ago  we — we  sent  the 
book  off.  Must  you  actually  go  to-morrow,  Timo- 
thy?" 

"It  seems  a  breach  of  sense  to  admit  it,"  Timothy 
agreed,  looking  at  her  through  the  gloaming,  "but 
my  editors  imagine  that  the  summer  has  created 
some  new  Plain  People — at  least  they  want  me  to 
come  and  see." 

"I  suppose  so,"  Doromea  sighed.  "I  wish  some 
one  wanted  me  to  come  and  do  something,"  she 
added,  vehemently,  under  her  breath.  "Goodness 
knows  there's  been  nothing  to  do  here,  since  the 
book's  been  finished.  Anne  seems  to  be  busy  every 
minute,"  she  observed,  aloud,  "but  I  don't  sew  or 
cook  or  row,  or  anything — I  don't  even  play  the 
piano!"  This  with  a  gust  of  indignation,  as  some 
very  good  playing  came  through  the  window. 

"It's  the  book's  fault."    Michael's  voice  sounded 


28          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

rather  weary.  "If  I  hadn't  held  you  to  the  book 
every  minute,  you  might  have  learned  these  other 
things.  But  I  never  imagined  for  a  moment  that 
the  publishers  would  reject  it — it  seemed  so  much 
better  than  the  first  one,  so  much  subtler " 

"What  did  they  say  about  it?"  Timothy  moved 
to  where  he  could  not  see  the  quiver  of  Doromea's 
lips. 

"They  said" — Michael  repeated  with  the  monot- 
ony of  one  who  has  gone  over  the  lesson  many 
times — "that  they  were  much  surprised  and  not  a 
little  disappointed  over  the  decided  inferiority  of 
this  book  compared  with  the  other;  that  I  seemed 
to  have  striven  for  an  effect  rather  than  for  a  truth- 
ful portrayal  of  actual  life.  Oh,  they  tore  it  up 
sharply  enough!"  he  concluded,  breaking  off  as 
though  the  recital  choked  him. 

"They  did  say,"  Doromea  comforted,  wiping  her 
eyes  back  of  Michael's  cushions — "they  did  say 
there  was  some  clever  dialogue  in  it — you  remem- 
ber, Michael,  where  Faero  talks  with  the  rector? 
They  mentioned  that  especially." 


ANNE— JUST  A  PLAIN  WOMAN  29 

"Yes — yes" — Michael  caught  at  the  consolation 
— "where  she  says,  'One  can  be  so  many  worse 
things  than  bad,'  and —  Why,  Anne  said  that,  Doro- 
mea;  funny,  isn't  it?  Don't  you  know,  when  we 
were  talking  about  that  stable-boy  who  stole — the 
one  who  had  been  in  the  Reformatory?  You  said 
you  thought  he  was  the  baddest  boy  in  the  world, 
and  Anne — why,  yes,  of  course !" 

"What  else  did  they  say  was  especially  good?" 
Timothy's  voice  suggested,  with  suspicious  imper- 
sonality. 

"Why,  farther  on,  the  scene  between  the  kitchen- 
maid  and  the  policeman — that  was  a  story  of 
Gladys-Marie's,  Anne  told  us — awfully  natural,  you 
know,  and — er — local-colorish.  They  like  that." 

"Yes,  and  the  bit  about  the  ladies'  clubs."  Doro- 
mea  would  not  allow  Michael  to  omit  anything. 

"Surely,  that — that  was  funny,  you  know " 

Michael  laughed  heartily  for  the  first  time  since  yes- 
terday, when  the  book  had  come  back.  "That  was 
a  conversation  Anne  had  with — Doromea !"  He  sat 
all  at  once  bolt  upright  in  his  hammock.  "Every 


30          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

one  of  those  things  was  Anne's!  Every  single  one 
of  them — do  you  know  that,  Doromea? — and  the 
publishers  said  they  were  the  only  clever  things  in 
the  book !" 

"Anne — clever?"  Doromea  stumbled,  dazed  with 
the  dawning  of  it.  "Why — why,  Michael!" 

"Yes" — Michael  was  standing  up  now,  and  al- 
most excited — "yes,  those  were  Anne's  things — the 
clever  ones — and  all  the  rest  was  rot.  We  sat  in 
there  racking  our  brains  over  subtle  things  to  say, 
and  all  the  time,  if  we'd  just  listened  to  Anne,  we 
could  have  written  a  perfectly  extraordinary  book — * 
the  cleverest  book  in  the  world !  It's  maddening — 
it's " 

"Do  you  know  why  it  would  have  been  the  clev- 
erest book  in  the  world?"  asked  Timothy,  quietly — 
for  Anne's  singing  stopped  just  then.  "Because  it 
would  have  been  the  story  of  just  a  plain,  ordinary 
woman — and  that's  the  rarest  woman  one  can  find 
to  write  about — women  like  Anne,  and  that  little 
Patsy  sister  of  mine,  and  a  host  of  others.  Why 


ANNE— JUST  A  PLAIN  WOMAN    31 

don't  you  go  in,"  he  said  to  Michael,  gently,  "and 
ask  her  to  help  you  find  her?" 

As  Michael  slipped  through  the  long  window, 
Timothy  moved  to  the  step  below  Doromea.  "Aren't 
you  convinced  that  she's  the  subtlest  woman,  too — 
this  plain,  ordinary  woman?"  he  asked.  Doromea's 
curly  head  was  bent  very  low.  "Don't  you  think 
you  might  like  to  cook,  and  sew,  and  trim  hats  some- 
times?" 

His  voice  was  so  wistful  that  Doromea  wiped  her 
eyes  quite  frankly  this  time.  "I — I  am  perfectly 
wild  to  trim  hats,"  she  burst  out,  laughing  between 
her  sobs.  "Oh,  Timothy,  I  am  so  sick — sick — sick 
of  trying  to  be  clever  and  think  up  things!  I  am 
really  the  dullest,  plainest  woman  in  the  world." 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Timothy,  gravely,  taking  the 
unskilful  little  hands.  "I  need  a  heroine  most  aw- 
fully. You  see" — turning  her  about  to  face  the 
library  windows — "Michael  has  found  his."  For 
Michael  was  standing  by,  while  Anne  lit  the  lamp 
and  undid  a  heavy  pile  of  manuscript. 
"Anne — just  a  plain  woman "  Doromea's  voice 


32          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

caught — but  with  a  yearning  desire.  "Even  Gladys- 
Marie  had  the  sense  to  tell  me  that  she  had  the 
Duchess  heroines  beat  by  a  lope !  Do  you  suppose, 
Timothy" — her  hands  crept  to  his  shoulders  plead- 
ingly— "do  you  suppose  that  I  can  ever  learn  to  be 
as  clever  as  Anne?" 


II 

TIMOTHY— ONLY  A  WRITER 

PATSY  thumped  Timothy's  fattest  yellow  cushion 
viciously.  "It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  sit  there 
and  smile,"  she  scolded  her  pretty  stepmother. 
"Dad  was  always  perfect  to  you,  and  Timmie — if 
he  is  my  brother — is  a  joy  to  keep  house  for.  You've 
never  known  what  it  is  to  live  with  a  man  from 
Boston!— oh,  how  I  hate  him,  how  I'd  like  to  make 
him  fairly  eat  slang!  The  idea — my  own  husband 
saying  I  was  r-rowdy,  and — and  tomboy,"  Patsy's 
head  went  down  into  the  yellow  cushion,  "and  be- 
fore my  own  mother-in-law,  too,  just  because  I 
slid  down  the  banisters!  Ugh!" 

The  stepmother  looked  at  Patsy's  lovely  rebellious 
little  head.  Then  she  looked  at  the  ridiculous  scrap 
of  a  frock  she  was  making.  "I  suppose  he  thought 
of  the  Angel,"  she  murmured. 

33 


34          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

"And  why?"  Instantly  Patsy  sat  bolt  upright. 
"The  Angel's  my  child,  of  course — every  bit  as 
much  as  he  is  Warren's — but  why  I  shouldn't  slide 
down  the  banisters  when  I  want  to,  just  because  I 
happen  to  have  a  baby — one  might  think  it  was  my 
grandchild!"  The  disgust  that  tilted  the  small  im- 
pudent nose  made  the  stepmother  bite  her  under 
lip  hard.  "Anyway,  it's  all  over  now.  I've  left 
Warren  for  good,  and  when  he  gets  back  from 
Washington  and  finds  nobody  in  the  house  he'll 
realize  that  I'm  sufficiently  capable  of  action,  though 
I  can't  talk  like  a  Macaulay  essay.  When  he  finds 

not  only  me  but  the  Angel  gone "  she  listened 

suddenly — a  faint  cry  came  down  from  some  place 
upstairs. 

"I  expect  the  house  will  seem  still  and — and 
strange."  The  stepmother's  soft  voice  had  a  little 
ache  in  it  as  she  listened  too. 

Patsy  got  up  and  walked  to  the  window  of  the 
bright  morning-room  with  a  defiant  shrug  that  was 
meant  also  to  be  quite  indifferent.  "He  deserves  it," 
she  defended.  "Every  bit  of  it.  He  behaved  like 


TIMOTHY— ONLY  A  WRITER    35 

a  brute — a  perfectly  gentlemanly  good- form  Prince 
Albert  brute;  and  when  he  has  to  go  to  Congress 
and  give  dinners  and  things  without  any  wife,  he'll 
be  sorry  he  was  so  abominable.  He'll  remember 
that  I  could  be  grown-up  and  dignified  when  I  want 
to.  As  for  me,  I  can  toddle  on  my  own " 

"H'm?"    The  stepmother  looked  up  inquiringly. 

"Get  along  by  myself,  I  mean,  and  take  care  of 
the  Angel  quite — quite  as  well  as  though  I  had  a 
husband.  I  dare  say  Timothy  won't  mind  my  stay- 
ing here  for  a  bit?"  Patsy's  hauteur  melted  into 
an  appealing  wist  fulness. 

"Of  course  he  won't  mind,"  returned  the  step- 
mother, warmly.  "He  has  some  news " 

"And  then,"  went  on  Patsy,  unheeding,  "I  can 
take — steps."  The  vague  importance  of  the  de- 
cision seemed  to  reassure  her;  for  she  came  back 
to  her  old  place  on  the  sofa  and  plumped  down 
into  the  cushions  almost  cheerfully. 

"I — before  you  take — er — steps,"  suggested  the 
stepmother,  tentatively,  "why  not  consult  Timo- 
thy?" 


36          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

"Consult  Timothy?"  Timothy's  sister  faced  about 
amazed.  "W-what  on  earth  could  Timothy  know 
about  it — about  leaving  one's  husband?  He's  the 
dearest  boy  in  the  world — a  ripping  good  sport  and 
all  that — but,  after  all,  Claire,  he's  only  a  writer. 
He  doesn't  know  anything  about  things  that  hap- 
pen" 

The  stepmother  sewed  for  a  few  minutes  in 
silence.  Then,  "Nobody  else  knows  that — that  it's 
happened  yet,  do  they?"  she  asked,  rather  anxiously. 

"No,"  said  Patsy,  shortly.  "I  told  the  maids  I 
was  coming  over  to  stay  a  few  days  with  my  brother, 
that's  all.  Of  course,  Laura  Hastings  was  spending 
the  week-end  with  me  when  we  had  the  scene — 
when  Warren  and  his  mother  came  in  from  Bos- 
ton, I  mean,  and  found  me — Patricia Oh,  yes," 

with  a  wry  face,  "she  calls  me  that,  Warren's  moth- 
er!  As  I  was  saying,  Laura  was  there,  sliding  down 
too,  as  it  happened,  and  you  know,  Claire,  Laura's 
the  worst  gossip  in  New  York.  She  has  told  it  all 
over,  I  suppose,  that  Warren  simply  ordered  me  to 
get  down — anybody  might  know  such  a  good-look- 


TIMOTHY— ONLY  A  WRITER    37 

ing  man  would  be  a  tryant! — but  she  can't  say  a 
word  about  me,  for  I  was  the  sweetest  thing  pos- 
sible all  the  time  she  was  there.  I  wouldn't  conde- 
scend to  quarrel,  you  may  be  sure,  even  afterward, 
when  only  Warren  and  his  mother  were  there." 

"They  went  on  to  Washington  that  same  night, 

you  said "  the  stepmother  creased  a  tuck 

thoughtfully. 

"Yes — Warren  had  some  business.  His  mother" 
— Patsy's  scorn  pelted  her  words  out — "went  to  a 
convention  of  the  Women  Militant,  if  you  know 
what  that  is.  Warren's  coming  back  to-day.  Well" 
— she  straightened  her  collar  belligerently — "he'll 
find  a  note  on  the  pincushion  that  will  explain  a  few 
things." 

"Ahem!"  The  stepmother  coughed  deprecat- 
ingly.  "He's  been  taking  some  rather  tiresome  trips 
lately,  Warren,  hasn't  he  ?" 

"Oh,  of  course  he  has — but  what  difference  does 
that  make?"  Patsy's  guilty  compassion  stirred  itself 
to  impatience.  "Nobody  wanted  him  to  go  to  Con- 
gress except  his  mother — though  of  course  I  was 


38         THE  UNPRETENDERS 

glad  he  got  the  election,"  she  admitted,  grudgingly. 
"But  it's  meant  running  back  and  forth  from  New 
York  to  Boston  and  from  Boston  to  Washington 
all  the  fall.  This  last  Sunday  simply  capped  the 
climax  of  everybody's  endurance.  Why  the  good- 
ness his  mother  had  to  come  down  with  him,  just 
that  time  when  he  was  going  to  find  me  on  the 
banisters "  She  shook  her  pretty  head  despair- 
ingly. 

"Hello!"  whistled  somebody.  "So  the  Plain 
Little  Sister  has  come  to  congratulate  me — what? 
Didn't  I  see  a — er — perambulator-rocking-chair- 
crib,  folded  compactly  as  in  the  advertisement,  out 
there  in  the  hall  ?" 

"Yes."  Patsy  kissed  her  brother  with  character- 
istic vehemence.  "It  is  the  Angel's.  We've  come 
to  stay." 

"Oh,"  said  Timothy,  curling  his  spare  shortness 
into  a  huge  chair,  "how  disappointing!  I  mean, 
that  is,  I  thought  you  had  come  to  congratulate  me, 
you  know." 


TIMOTHY— ONLY  A  WRITER     39 

"Congratulate  you?"  Patsy  flew  at  him.  "On 
what?" 

"Why,  on  Doromea,  of  course.  I've  got  her  to 
marry  me." 

Patsy  regarded  the  stepmother  reproachfully. 
"And  you  never  told  me  a  word,"  she  said,  with  an 
air  of  deep  injury.  "I've  been  here  two  hours!" 

"There  was  a  good  deal  to  talk  about,"  demurred 
the  stepmother,  soberly.  "You  were  telling  me, 
you  know." 

"Yes — yes,  of  course."  Patsy's  injury  transferred 
its  object  to  the  primary  interest.  "Timothy,  I've 
left  Warren." 

"That  was  nice  of  you,"  commented  Timothy. 
"Stay  as  long  as  you  can."  He  looked  at  his  sister's 
pretty  hair  contentedly;  it  curled  over  the  ears  like 
Doromea's. 

"But  you  don't  understand "  Patsy  was  sel- 
dom impatient  with  Timothy ;  she  tried  to  remember 
that  he  was  a  writer.  Then,  too,  they  had  been  chums 
together  always.  "You  don't  understand.  I've 
left  him  forever.  I'm  not  going  to  Washington 


40          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

with  him.  He — he  insulted  me;  he  called  me 
a " 

Timothy  uncurled  himself  in  his  interest.  "Yes," 
he  encouraged.  "What  did  he  call  you?" 

"A — a  t-tomboy !"  Patsy's  lips  quivered  past  con- 
trol. "And  his  mother  was  there  and  Laura  Hast- 
ings, a  girl  who  was  staying  with  me — and  a  per- 
fectly horrid  gossip,  Timothy !  Oh,  he  was  a  beast, 
that's  all.  I'm  sure,"  tearfully,  "I  can't  think  what 
you  all  ever  let  me  marry  him  for!" 

Timothy  glanced  over  the  auburn  head  at  the 
stepmother.  The  stepmother  glanced  at  Timothy. 
But  neither  of  them  smiled. 

"I  have  never  had  anything  against  marriage," 
said  Timothy,  mildly.  "I  have  even  persuaded  one 
person  to  get  over  her  prejudice  against  it.  Perhaps 
I  am  wrong — if  so,  you  can  win  the  eternal  credit 
of  convincing  me.  And  meanwhile,  why  not  come 
with  me  to  select  an  engagement  present  ?  We  can 
argue  as  we  go  along,  you  know." 

It  was  not  an  unattractive  proposition.  Patsy 
brightened.  "You  must  wait  for  me  to  change," 


TIMOTHY— ONLY  A  WRITER    41 

she  warned,  jumping  up.  "This  frock's  a  wreck. 
But  I  brought  five  trunks.  I  thought,"  doubtfully, 
"that  as  long  as  I  was  leaving  for  good,  I  had  bet- 
ter take  everything  with  me." 

"A  sound  precaution,"  commended  Timothy,  go- 
ing over  to  the  window. 

"And  you'll  look  after  the  Angel?"  Patsy  stopped 
by  the  stepmother's  chair.  "It  may  divert  me  to  go 
out  for  a  bit,"  she  added,  plaintively.  "Of  course 
the  poor  boy — Timmie — can't  understand  all  I'm 
going  through.  He's  a  regular  brick,  but  in  love, 
poor  thing;  and  then  how  could  he  understand? 
He's  only  a  writer." 

"Only  a  writer,"  repeated  the  stepmother,  with 
an  odd  little  smile.  "A  writer  about  Plain  People 
and  their  Problems.  Yes,  dear,  run  along.  As  you 
say,  it  may  divert  you.  If  the  Angel  cries  I'll — 
I'll  give  it  smelling-salts.  I  dare  say  I  sha'n't  kill 
it." 

"Oh,  no,"  Patsy  called  back,  pleasantly.  "You 
couldn't.  It  has  Warren's  obstinacy.  But  it's  a 


42          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

darling,  just  the  same."  She  flew  np-stairs  as  a 
lusty  squall  blew  down  to  them. 

"She  hasn't  congratulated  you  yet,"  murmured 
the  stepmother,  gazing  at  Timothy  with  quite  an 
unstepmotherly  gaze. 

"No — but  she  will  to-morrow,"  prophesied  Timo- 
thy, with  only  a  writer's  intuition. 

The  two  short,  blue-coated  figures  moved  off 
briskly  down  the  street  toward  the  Avenue.  From 
the  window,  the  stepmother  smiled  at  the  identical 
cut  of  their  shoulders,  the  boyish,  easy  swing  of 
their  same  stride ;  it  seemed  such  a  very  little  while 
since  she  had  watched  them  start  off  every  day  to 
school  together — the  blue  coats  had  lengthened 

such  a  little  bit — and  now Timothy  engaged, 

and  Patsy  married — married  and  half  divorced;  the 
stepmother's  nose  wrinkled  in  a  funny  smile.  Ah, 
well!  There  are  poignant  foolish  heartaches  for 
stepmothers  as  well  as  other  people,  but — just  then 
the  Angel  cried.  The  stepmother  caught  up  the 


TIMOTHY— ONLY  A  WRITER    43 

frilly  frock  and  hurried  upstairs;  where  there  is  an 
angel ! 

"For  the  Angel's  sake,  I  mean  to  have  only  a 
separation,"  Patsy  was  explaining  to  Timothy.  "Be- 
sides, it — it  will  serve  Warren  Adams  only  right  not 
to  be  able  to — t-to  marry  again.  A  Congressman 
without  a  wife!  Imagine  it!" 

"There  have  been  instances" — Timothy  was 
knocking  leaves  with  his  stick — "isolated  instances, 
I  grant  you,"  he  added,  hastily,  catching  his  sister's 
eye.  "I  think  myself  such  Congressmen  are  to  be 
felt  for.  I  suppose" — reflectively — "when  Warren 
is  sworn  in,  there  will  be  nobody  there  except  his 
mother." 

"I  suppose  not,"  returned  Patsy,  shortly;  and 
ramming  her  stout-gloved  little  hands  into  her  man- 
nish pockets,  she  began  to  whistle. 

Timothy  poked  more  leaves.  They  were  scarcely 
at  the  corner  of  Madison  Avenue.  "When  one  can 
whistle  like  that,"  he  observed  to  a  silent  sparrow 
on  the  curb,  "there  is  some  point  in  letting  the  world 
know  about  it." 


44          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

Patsy  stopped  whistling  at  once.  "I  always  want 
to  whistle  when  Warren's  mother  is  about — even 
when  it's  only  in  conversation.  See  here,  Timmie," 
the  small  hand  clutched  her  brother's  arm  confiden- 
tially, "don't  you — haven't  you  always  thought  War- 
ren's mother  was  a  bit  of  a  muff?" 

Timothy  paused,  over  his  glasses.  "Muff?"  he 
repeated — stupidly,  Patsy  thought.  "Muff — that 
was  a  pretty  one  she  sent  the  Angel,  wasn't  it?  All 
white  and  soft  and  fuzzy.  She " 

"Oh,  never  mind,  then,"  Patsy  cut  him  off  im- 
patiently. "If  you're  not  going  to  agree  with  me, 
where's  the  use  of  arguing?  /  couldn't  help  it  if 
she  did  send  the  Angel  a  muff — anyway,  he  sha'n't 
carry  it!"  she  added,  vindictively,  under  her  breath. 
"Convention,  tradition,  what  people  will  say — booh ! 
How  sick  I  am  of  it  all — wish  I  could  make  every 
one  of  those  words  waltz  themselves  out  of  the  big 
die.  forever!" 

"Ah — about  this  present  for  Doromea " 

When  Timothy  said  that  name,  Patsy  looked  up 
quickly;  there  was  no  earthly  reason  why  a  lump 


TIMOTHY— ONLY  A  WRITER    45 

should  rise  in  her  throat,  but — "Doromea,"  Timothy 
repeated,  as  though  for  very  spite.  "It  must  be  a 
very  nice  present,  you  know." 

"Then  we'll  go  to ,"  said  Patsy,  swallowing 

emphatically.  "Everybody  goes  there ;  my — my  ring 
came  from  there,  and  Claire's,  and  all  our  family 
have  always  bought  things  there.  It's  a  sort  of " 

"Habit?"  supplied  Timothy,  kindly. 

"Yes,  habit."  Patsy  gave  a  sigh  of  relief.  If 
Timothy  should  have  guessed  that  she  had  almost 
said  tradition!  "Certainly,  habit — and,  well,  we're 
right  there  now,  Timothy.  It  must  be  a  ring,  I 
suppose?" 

Timothy's  gray  eyes  darkened  to  absorption.  "I 
should  say  a  ring  might  do,"  he  deliberated. 

"Sure  thing!"  Patsy  was  standing  near  a  person 
who  looked  like  Warren's  mother,  so  she  repeated, 
"Sure  thing!"  loudly  and  cheerfully.  The  person 
started.  "Diamonds — eh,  Timmie?  But" — to  the 
clerk — "not  a  solitaire.  Solitaires" — feeling  her 
own,  under  the  heavy  glove — "are  so  ordinary !" 


46          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

"I  rather  fancy  a  solitaire,"  protested  Timothy, 
mildly.  "Let's  see  yours,  Pats !" 

With  a  sublime  indifference  Patsy  took  off  her 
glove.  "It  is  rather  a  good  solitaire,"  she  admitted, 
negligently. 

"Would  you  take  it  off  a  minute,  madam?  I 
should  like  to  compare " 

"Oh,  no — that  is,  I  mean" — Patsy  blushed  furi- 
ously— "I  have  never  taken  that  ring  off — I — but  I 
suppose  I  might  just  as  well,  now,"  she  concluded, 
defiantly. 

"Why  not?"  agreed  Timothy — who  was  only  a 
writer. 

"I  prefer  not  to  take  that  ring  off  here,"  said" 
Patsy,  with  a  colossal  dignity.  "I — we  will  look  at 
what  you  have  in  circlets." 

"Certainly,  madam."  The  clerk's  sandy  head 
sank  into  a  blue  plush  show-drawer. 

"There's  Laura  Hastings !"  cried  Patsy,  suddenly, 
"with  a  man — looking  at  rings.  And  she  never 
even  hinted !  Do  wait,  Timothy.  I  must  speak 


TIMOTHY— ONLY  A  WRITER    47 

to  her  a  minute.  Just  like  a  gossipy  person — never 
to  tell  one  thing  about  themselves !" 

"Yes,"  coming  back  breathlessly.  "It's  true. 
They're  engaged.  Laura  said" — Patsy's  breezy 
voice  grew  somewhat  dry — "it  was  seeing  me  so 
happy  in  my  lovely  home  that  really  decided  her — 
of  course  on  top  of  that  I  could  hardly  tell  her — 
umm!"  as  the  clerk  reappeared.  "Perhaps,  after  all, 
a  solitaire  would  be  better — Laura's  getting  one, 

and  people  might  say "  the  minute  the  words 

were  out,  Patsy  glanced  fearfully  at  Timothy;  but 
Timothy  was  deep  in  settings.  "Her  friends  might 
think,"  amended  Patsy,  "that  you  ought  to  have 
given  Doromea  one.  Is  Doromea  as  pretty  as  she 
used  to  be?"  she  added,  irrelevantly. 

"She  may  sometime  have  been  as  pretty  as  she 
is  now,"  Timothy  meditated,  "but  it  seems  hardly 
probable.  As  a  Plain  Person — she  wants  you  to 
show  her  about  things  next  winter,"  he  branched 
off.  "The  house  and  that,  you  know.  Anne  and 
Michael  are  going  to  stay  on  in  the  country,  so " 

"But  I  shall  be  in  Washington,"  blurted  Patsy. 


48          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

"Oh,  no — of  course,  I  forgot."  The  blue  shoulders 
sagged  a  bit  forlornly  as  they  turned  again  to  soli- 
taires. "I  shall  be  very  glad  to  help  Dorry  all  I 
can,"  finished  Patsy,  stiffly.  "What  do  you  think  of 
this  platinum  one,  Timothy?" 

Timothy  straightened  his  glasses  to  a  critical 
focus.  "Very  nice — the  claws  are  so  thin  and  fine 
— like  those  in  the  pin  Warren  gave  you  when  the 
Angel  was  born.  I  was  always  fond  of  that  pin." 
Timothy  was  talking  mostly  to  himself  as  he 
squinted  closer  at  the  solitaire.  "I  remember  War- 
ren's face  when  he  went  in  to  give  it  to  you — 
*  'Tisn't  half  good  enough/  he  said.  And  it  didn't 
seem  to  me  then  that  it  was,  either." 

Patsy  was  staring  at  a  case  of  watches — staring 
hard  and  with  her  back  to  Timothy.  Surreptitiously 
she  got  out  her  handkerchief. 

"Then  you'll  lay  that  one  aside,"  she  suggested, 
lightly,  though  still  with  her  back  turned.  "And 
the  flat  one — Doromea  might  like  that,  it's  so — so 
awfully  subtle,  you  know.  And  Dorry  always " 

"But  not  now,"  corrected  Timothy,  gently.    "She 


TIMOTHY— ONLY  A  WRITER     49 

has  advanced  to  the  infinite  subtlety  of  forgetting 
that  there  is  such  a  thing.  I  think  we  won't  con- 
sider the  flat  one.  What  are  you  looking  at  over 
there,  Pats?" 

"Rattles,"  replied  Patsy,  in  a  strangled  voice. 
"Warren  promised  to  come  in  and  get  one  with  me 
for  the  Angel's  seventh  birthday — seventh-month 
birthday,  you  know.  We  bought  his  six-months 
one — that's  next  Sunday — three  weeks  ago!"  The 
handkerchief  went  up  to  Patsy's  impudent  little 
nose,  and  blew  it  hard.  "If  it  only  wasn't  for  War- 
ren's mother — "  she  scolded,  sotto  voce,  so  that  the 
clerk  should  not  hear — "you  know,  Timothy,  I — 
but  there,  what's  the  use  in  telling  you?  You 
wouldn't  understand." 

"I  might — though  I  do  write  things,"  encouraged 
Timothy.  "Why  not  try  me?  We  can  pretend  to 
be  comparing  rings  over  by  the  window." 

"All  right."  Patsy  gave  a  deep  sigh.  "You  see, 
this  is  the  way  it  is.  When — when  I  married  War- 
ren I  was  in  love  with  him — I  really  was,  Tim- 
othy." 


50          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

"I  remember  you  were,"  said  Timothy,  gravely. 

"Yes.  And  of  course  I  was  awfully  young — aw- 
fully young;  though,  to  be  sure,  I'm  twenty-one 
now;  I  didn't  want  to  get  married,  you  know " 

"No?"  Timothy's  tone  held  only  inquiry.  He 
had  the  most  tractable  memory  in  the  world. 

"Certainly  not.  I  was  talked  into  it.  Warren 
and  Warren's  mother  kept  saying  there  was  no 
sense  in  delaying  the  thing,  and  I  supposed  there 
wasn't,  as  we'd  have  to  get  married  some  time, 
wouldn't  we,  being  in  love  and  all  ?" 

"Sometimes  people  don't,"  began  Timothy.  "In 
stories " 

"Oh,  bother  stories!"  interrupted  Patsy,  rudely. 
"You  promised  to  try  to  forget  you  were  a  writer. 
Quick,  look  at  these  silly  rings — that  woman's  lis- 
tening. Well,  so  I  married  Warren,  and  for  a 
while,  you  know,  we  didn't  get  along  so  badly — the 
first  year  we  were  married  we  hadn't  but  seven 
serious  quarrels;  of  course  there  were  little  things, 
but  you  know  yourself,  Timmie,  we  managed  very 
nicely." 


TIMOTHY— ONLY  A  WRITER    51 

"It  always  seemed  so  to  me,"  Timothy  came  in 
promptly  on  his  cue. 

"That,"  Patsy  triumphed,  "was  because  Warren 
was  in  love  with  me.  He  didn't  care  then  how 
much  slang  I  used  or  if  I  wore  boys'  boots;  I  could 
climb  trees  all  day  long  when  we  were  up  at  camp, 
and  ride  bareback  all  over  the  place.  But  now,"  the 
piquant  little  face  grew  tragic,  "it's  that  same  old 
thing — the  glamour's  wearing  off,  and" — Patsy's 
voice  sounded  unpleasantly  older  than  twenty-one — 
"my  husband's  tired  of  me,  the  real  me.  Now  he 
wants  me  made  to  his  order,  to  his  mother's  order ; 
now" — a  big  tear  splashed  on  her  engagement  ring 
— "I'm  just  the  mother  of  his  child.  I'm  expected 
to  be  old  and  dull  and  mouse  about  in  corners  with 
a  book  or  some  sewing.  Sewing !  When  I  can  sail 
a  boat  better  than  any  one  on  Barnegat,  and  play 
hockey,  and  ride  even  the  Blue  Devil,  that  all  the 
Club's  afraid  of!  Sewing!" 

"Claire  sews,"  Timothy  reflected. 

"Of  course  she  does,"  snapped  Patsy.  "Claire 
was  born  amiable  and  womanly  and  all  the  sweet 


52          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

normal  things  a  woman  ought  to  be.  I  wasn't. 
I've  never  been  anything  but  a  harum-scarum 
r-r-rowdy,  just  as  Warren  called  me,  I " 

"You've  been  the  mother  of  the  Angel."  Tim- 
othy spoke  softly,  almost  reverently.  "Claire  has 
only  been  allowed  to  be  a  stepmother." 

"That  makes  it  just  so  much  worse,"  choked 
Patsy,  flashing  diamonds  as  though  for  her  life. 
"I— can't  you  see,  I  don't  deserve  to — to  be  the 
Angel's  mother !  Tha — that's  what  Warren  thinks." 

Timothy  looked  down  at  the  trembling  softened 
mouth,  at  the  brimming  tawny  eyes  of  his  Plain 
Little  Sister.  "Warren  is  going  to  Congress,"  he 
said,  letting  Doromea's  ring  slip  on  to  his  smallest 
finger.  "I  have  heard  that  at  such  times — just  be- 
fore they  go — they  hardly  know  what  they  think. 
Everybody  expects  them  to  think  something  dif- 
ferent, you  see.  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  they 
did  not  even  know  what  they  said — sometimes. 
There  are  stories " 

Patsy  looked  at  him  reproachfully.    "You  prom- 


TIMOTHY— ONLY  A  WRITER    53 

ised  to  leave  out  stories,"  she  murmured.  "You 
were  just  beginning  to  be  comforting." 

"Um-m !  So  I  did — so  I  was,  I  mean.  The  fact 
is,  I  almost  believe  they  forget  what  they  have  said, 
what  they  have  thought,  almost  the  minute  they 
have  said  or  thought  it.  They — they  get  tired,  you 
see.  They  have  to  go  off  and  make  speeches,  and 
their  constituents  keep  dinning  their  importance  at 
them,  the  importance  of  maintaining  the  dignity 
of  their  position,  and  that,  you  know;  then  they 
come  home,  a  bit  low  and  worn  out  with  it,  and — 
they're  just  plain  ordinary  people,  Congressmen — 
they  lose  their  grip  once  in  a  while.  They 
need " 

"Claire  told  you!"  accused  Patsy,  though  into 
her  eyes  had  crept  that  same  look  as  when  she  was 
singing  the  Angel  to  sleep.  "You  knew  it  was  the 
day  he  came  home  from  Boston,  and  went  right 
away  again." 

Timothy  peered  suddenly  through  his  glasses  at 
some  one  who  was  coming  into  the  store.  "I  did 


54,          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

have  an  idea  it  was  that  day,"  he  confessed — "one 
of  those  days,  that  is." 

"And  of  course,"  Patsy's  voice  gathered  injury, 
"of  all  days  his  mother  had  to  choose  that  one  to 
come  along.  And  you  know,  Timmie,  when  War- 
ren's mother  comes  along,  it  isn't  any  suit-case 
party.  There  are  trunks  to  be  checked  and  a  maid 
to  be  hustled  into  the  baggage-car,  or  wherever  it 
is  they  put  'em ;  and  there's  a  dog  to  be  fought  about 
— Warren's  mother  simply  shrieks  if  they  suggest 
putting  Toto  in  the  baggage-car — and  half  a  dozen 
smaller  parcels  to  be  lost  and  found  a  few  times. 
Oh,  I  know!" — grimly.  "I've  had  to  play  leading 
understudy  in  the  scream;  and  there  was  Warren, 
tired  to  a  frazzle — you  know  he  was  tired,  Tim- 
othy  " 

"I  dare  say  he  was,"  Timothy  was  now  the  party 
of  admission,  "probably  very  tired." 

"Coming  into  his  own  house Oh,  well," 

Patsy  straightened  her  sturdy  shoulders  and  dabbed 
at  one  eye  after  the  other.  "It's  all  over  now.  I've 
left  him,  and  where's  the  good  of  talking  about 


TIMOTHY— ONLY  A  WRITER    55 

what  might  have  been?  It's  only  in  stories  that 
what  might  have  been  ever  is.  In  a  story,  now" — 
she  arraigned  the  writer — "you'd  have  the  hero  and 
the  hero's  mother  appear  out  of  nowhere  and  fall 
on  the — er — pseudo-heroine's  neck,  and  offer  a  dia- 
mond necklace,  while  pseudo-heroine  exchanged 
apologies;  and  the  whole  family  would  trip  happily 
home  on  one  another's  arms.  Isn't  that  so?  Isn't 
that  just  the  sort  of  impossible  thing  you  have  hap- 
pen in  those  Plain  stories  of  yours?" 

Timothy  smiled,  that  same  smile  that  had  over- 
come Doromea's  prejudice  against  marriage.  "If 
you  were  writing  a  Plain  story,  wouldn't  you  have 
it  end  that  way  ?"  he  asked,  regarding  diamonds  un- 
seeingly  from  behind  his  glasses. 

"I — I  never  wrote  a  story,"  began  Patsy,  fum- 
bling with  her  veil. 

Timothy  looked  at  her.  "You  couldn't  help  writ- 
ing one,"  he  said,  and  his  eyes  were  full  of  some- 
thing that  blinded  Patsy's.  "At  first,  when  there 
was  just  Claire  and  you  and  me,  it  was  a  story  of 
adventure — of  wild  and  thrilling  dashes  into  the 


56          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

preserve-closet,  and  raids  upon  the  neighbors'  cherry 
trees;  then" — his  voice  softened — "it  was  a  fairy- 
story,  the  story  of  a  wonderful  new  world,  all  daz- 
zling and  radiant  with  tender  possibilities.  Wasn't 
it?"  he  insisted,  gently.  "Wasn't  it  for  a  while  a 
fairy-story,  Little  Sister?" 

"For — for  a  while,  yes,"  acknowledged  Patsy, 
very  low,  "but " 

"But  the  castles  had  to  fall,"  went  on  Timothy, 
gazing  wistfully  at  Doromea's  gleaming  ring,  "the 
castles  had  to  fall,  and  the  Fairy  Prince  had  to  be- 
come just  a  Plain  Husband,  or  he  would  never  have 
fitted  this  Plain,  Plain  World;  and  the  story  had 
to  become  a  real  story — ten  times  more  wonderful 
than  a  fairy-story,  if  one  reads  it  with  an  eye  to 
life's  permanent  values.  Do  you  know" — Timothy 
took  off  his  glasses  and  looked  at  them  meditatively 
— "we  people  who  write  things — that  is,  you  and  I 
and  all  the  world — are  simply  pestered  to  death  by 
false  climaxes  ?  Silly  midget  episodes  jump  up  and 
insist  that  they — one  after  one — are  the  great  Turn- 
ing Point  of  all  our  Plot.  Pats,  my  dear" — he  re- 


TIMOTHY— ONLY  A  WRITER    57 

garded  her  seriously — "I  make  it  a  point  not  to  be- 
lieve 'em.  I  do  really ;  I  say  to  myself :  here,  if  you, 
the  Big  You,  can't  recognize  your  own  theme  and 
its  outworking  as  you've  planned  it,  as  you  want  it, 
then  you  aren't  much  of  a  writer,  that's  all.  If  you 
want  your  story  to  end  a  certain  way,  and  can't 
make  it  end  that  way,  just  on  account  of  the  inter- 
ference of  some  puny  bit  of  an  incident,  I  say,  well, 
after  all,  Tim,  you  ought  never  to  have  been  allowed 
to  write.  And  so" — the  gray  eyes  smiled  deeper — 
"just  out  of  self-respect  I  have  to  make  the  end 
right,  you  see." 

Patsy  glanced  at  him  suspiciously.  "That's  a 
story  with  a  moral,"  she  asserted,  though  her  voice 
was  rather  unsteady;  "the  most  impossible  kind 
of  all." 

"It  is,"  confessed  the  writer,  unabashed,  "a  story 
with  a  moral.  But  I  refuse  to  admit  it's  impossible. 
And  if  you  will  go  back  again  to  those  rattles,  I 
think  you'll  refuse  to  admit  it  too.  The " 

"Why" — Patsy  had  turned  and  walked  a  few 


58          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

steps  back  into  the  store — "why,  it's  Warren !  War- 
ren, Timothy — and " 

"His  mother  is  over  looking  at  necklaces,"  nodded 
Timothy,  modestly.  "Not  diamond  ones,  but 
still » 

"She  heard  me  say  I  wanted  some  pearls  for  my 
birthday,"  Patsy  murmured,  guiltily.  "She — she's 
got  her  bag  with  her.  They  can't  have  gone  up  to 

the  house  yet Timmie,  Timmie  dear — do  you 

— do  you  suppose  I  might  speak  to  Warren,  just  to 
tell  him  not  to  mind  the  pincushion  note,  you  know 
— as  long  as  he's  looking  at  rattles,  Timmie ?" 

"As  long  as  he's  looking  at  rattles,"  agreed  Tim- 
othy, judiciously,  "I  should  say  you  might  speak  to 
him — yes." 

And  as  Patsy  flew  across  the  aisle,  he  deliberately 
turned  his  back  and  bent  his  glasses  once  more  on 
engagement  rings.  "So  foolish  to  let  oneself  fear 
that  a  Plain  Story  won't  end  well,"  he  mused  to  the 
ring  with  the  fine  platinum  claws ;  after  all,  he  was 
only  a  writer. 


Ill 


GLADYS-MARIE— MERELY  A 
MAID 

"So,  's  I  was  tellin'  you  this  mornin',  Marmaduke," 
Gladys-Marie  flipped  her  dish-towel  at  the  yellow 
kitchen  cat,  "I  ain't  so  thrilled  over  the  i-dea.  As 
Adalbert  said  to  Evelyn  Hortense,  in  The  Madness 
of  a  Handsome  Hero,  when  the  grewsomeness  o' 
this  black  scheme  was  sprung  upon  me,  I — well, 
Marmaduke,  though  'twas  me  own  missus,-  Lady 
Elinore,  put  it  up  to  me,  I  says,  'Oh,  pshaw !'  I  did, 
fer  a  fact.  Course  I  knew  all  along  Lady  Elinore 
and  Mr.  Michael  was  goin'  away,  'n'  leave  me  here 
to  head  off  th'  burglars,  but  w'en  she — bless  her 
heart ! — come  in  here  yesterday  mornin'  'n'  broke  it 
to  me  that  that  Mrs.  Verplanck  was  goin'  to  be  here 

while  they  was  away !     Marmaduke,  me  boy, 

59 


60          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

y'  could  V  had  me  fer  this  dish-rag,  I  was  that  limp 
'n'  speechless.  'Mrs.  Verplanck  'n'  her  husband 
need  a  change,'  says  Lady  Elinore,  in  that  kind  o' 
pitiful  sweet  way  o'  hers.  'Y'  see,  they  live  in  a 
hotel,  'n'  they  don't  know  nothin'  about  a  home,  or 
the  country,'  she  says.  'I'm  dependin'  on  you, 
Gladys-Marie,  to  mak'  'em  see  how  nice  it  is.  Yes/ 
she  says,  drawin'  on  her  sixteen-button  gloves 
thoughtful — like  the  heroine  when  she's  plannin' 
the  day-nooment — 'you  c'n  teach  Ellen  'n'  Knollys 
a  lot,'  she  says. 

"Oh,  I  know  it's  funny,  Marmaduke !  Y'  needn't 
squint  yer  old  wall-eye  at  me!  I  know  just  's  well 
's  you  that  fer  me,  Lady  Elinore's  gen'ral  house- 
maid, to  teach  Mrs.  Knollys  Verplanck  'n'  husband 
anything  is  such  a  Hippodrome-size  joke,  y'  couldn't 
get  anybody  t'  laugh  at  it.  'N'  my  eye !  Wen  the 
station-master  drove  'em  over  last  night,  I  says  t' 
meself,  it's  you  that  has  the  nerve,  I  says,  t'  imagine 
Lady  Elinore  was  drivin'  at  anything  but  a  joke, 
herself.  Anyway,"  Gladys-Marie  patted  her  pom- 
padour reassuringly,  "she  don't  even  wear  a  trans- 


GLADYS-MARIE— A  MAID      61 

formation,  'n'  she'd  be  real  plain,  Mrs.  Verplanck, 
if  't wasn't  fer  her  eyes.  My,  but  she  has  the  lamps, 
Marmaduke — all  big  'n'  black  'n'  soft — V  the 
clothes !  Gee !  makes  a  Bon  Ton  colored  plate  look 
like  a  suffragette!  Now  git  out  o'  my  way,  yer 
Grace,  'n'  pertly  too — I  gotta  get  a  hike  on  an'  lift 
in  the  dinner.  Livin'  'n  hotels  don't  give  ye  no 
correspondence  course  in  th'  gentle  art  o'  waitin'." 
And  Gladys-Marie  shoved  Marmaduke  affection- 
ately under  the  table  as  she  pinned  on  her  scrap  of 
a  cap  and  took  up  her  tray. 

"Really  quite  a  quaint  place,  don't  you  think, 
Knollys?"  Mrs.  Verplanck  was  saying,  as  Gladys- 
Marie  came  in  with  the  soup.  She  sat  languidly 
back  in  her  chair,  so  that  the  gracious  candle-light 
touched  her  shimmery  gown  to  even  more  wonder- 
ful glory  than  a  Bon  Ton  colored  plate.  "It  was 
most  awfully  sweet  of  Anne  and  Michael  to  turn  it 
over  to  us  for  this  week,  though  I  dare  say  they 
grow  bored  enough  with  the  quiet.  I  can't  think 
why  they  don't  come  in  to  town  for  at  least  the 
winter." 


62          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

"Lady  Elinore  says  th'  country  in  winter  's  the 
most  gorgeous  place  in  the  world,"  plumped  Gladys- 
Marie,  twirling  her  tray  resentfully.  "  'N'  last 
winter  we  had  taffy-pulls  'n'  sleigh-rides,  'n'  corn- 
roasts,  V  toboggans,  'n'  Miss  Dorry  'n'  Mister 
Timothy  says  people  was  just  fightin'  over  bids  t' 
come  out  here.  I  used  t'  think  th'  city  was  th'  lobby 
o'  heaven  meself,  but  my  word!  'tain't  nothin'  to 
the  country — Lady  Elinore's  country !"  She  looked 
at  Mrs.  Verplanck  earnestly. 

Mrs.  Verplanck  looked  at  her — as  though  Gladys- 
Marie  had  never  been  heard  to  say  a  word. 

"Er — rather  an  interesting  person,  my  dear." 
Knollys  Verplanck  put  up  his  eye-glasses  after  the 
little  maid's  retreating  figure.  "A  bit — er — chatty, 
certainly,  but — er " 

"Anne  has  spoiled  her  scandalously,"  returned 
Mrs.  Verplanck.  "Fancy  her  putting  in  like  that, 
in  the  midst  of  serving!  No  waiter  at  the  hotel 
would  dare  think  of  such  a  thing.  And  then  calling 
Anne  'Lady  Elinore/  as  though  she  were  a  person- 


GLADYS-MARIE— A   MAID      63 

age — it's  absurd.  Yet  Anne  seems  entirely  satis- 
fied with  her." 

"Um-m!"  Mr.  Verplanck  looked  about  the 
charming,  well-ordered  dining-room.  "She  does 
seem  a  good  servant,  doesn't  she?  This  soup  is  ex- 
cellent." And,  behind  the  big  bowl  of  daffodils,  he 
tipped  his  plate  for  the  last  spoonful — a  thing  he 
would  never  have  dared  to  do  in  the  hotel,  before  a 
waiter. 

"Oh,  yes,"  Mrs.  Verplanck  admitted,  indiffer- 
ently, "I  suppose  she  can  cook  and  sweep  and  things, 
this— er — Marie  (I  can't  really  be  expected  to  call 
her  whole  name),  but  she  gives  no  tone,  no  pres- 
tige to  the  place,  does  she?  And  that's  so  important 
nowadays,  when  one's  friends — really,  Knollys,  I 
think  we  should  move  to  the  St.  Midas  this  spring. 
Where  we  are  now,  it  hasn't  the  name  it  used  to 
have,  you  know." 

"No?"  Knollys  looked  mildly  undisturbed. 
"Then  why  not  take  a  house  some  place?  Really, 
Ellen,  this — this  strikes  me  as  very  pleasant,  this 
house  of  Michael's ;  all  the  room,  you  know,  and  no 


64          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

liveries  forever  underfoot.  Even  this — er — Marie 
person's  a  relief.  I've  been  Sir-ed  now  for  over  ten 
years.  Do  you  know  it  is  ten  years  since  we  went 
to  live  at  Marble  Court,  Ellen?" 

"We  were  married  ten  years  ago  next  Sunday," 
Ellen's  great  black  eyes  were  softer  than  usual, 
"and  we  went  to  live  at  the  hotel  directly  we  came 
back  from  our  honeymoon.  Yes,  it  is  almost  ten 
years,  Knollys.  But  I'm  quite  contented;  aren't 
you?  We  should  never  be  as  comfortable  in  a 
house  as  we  have  been  at  Marble  Court,  I  am  sure. 
A  house  is  such  a  care." 

"I  suppose  it  is."  Knollys  smothered  his  sigh — • 
it  was  ten  years  since  he  had  remembered  to  sigh 
for  a  house.  "Too  much  trouble,  and  all  that." 

"Yes,"  said  Ellen,  firmly.  "And  with  all  I  have 
to  do — and  next  year  I'm  up  for  the  Four-in-Hand 
Club — oh,  it's  not  to  be  thought  of,  of  course.  No 

doubt  you  were  only  joking,  Nollsie "  yet  she 

looked  at  him  a  little  anxiously;  for  in  spite  of  the 
ten  years,  she  was  more  than  very  fond  of  him. 

"Joking?"     When  he  let  his  gaze  fall,  in  that 


GLADYS-MARIE— A   MAID      65 

absent-minded  way,  it  suddenly  occurred  to  her  that 
he  was  almost  forty.  That  slight  silvering  of  the 
hair  about  his  temples  (which  secretly  pleased  her, 
as  an  aristocratic  touch)  took  on  a  hint  of  new  sig- 
nificance. "Joking  ?  Yes,  I  suppose  I  was,  my  dear. 
I  suppose  I  was.  Yet" — his  voice  grew  unwontedly 
wistful — "it  would  have  been  nice  if  I  hadn't  been, 
wouldn't  it?  If  our  house  hadn't  been  just  a  joke. 
Anne  and  Michael " 

"Anne  and  Michael  are  the  two  most  erratic  peo- 
ple one  knows,"  put  in  Ellen,  somewhat  shortly. 
"As  a  criterion,  they  aren't  to  be  taken  seriously. 
They  hide  themselves  here  in  the  woods  in  order 

that  Michael  may  write  books Oh,  they're 

good  books,  I  admit  that  (as  Knollys  started  to  in- 
terrupt)— but  what  Anne  does  with  herself  while 
he's  writing  them  I  can't  imagine.  A  week  here  is 
very  nice;  but  a  lifetime!"  Mrs.  Verplanck's  slen- 
der hands  went  up  in  expressive  wonderment. 

"That — er — Marie  girl  said  the  winters  were  all 
right,"  reminded  Knollys,  tentatively;  "she 
said " 


66          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

"My  dear "     Mrs.  Verplanck  regarded  her 

husband  with  the  nearest  disapproval  she  could  turn 
upon  him.  "And  what  if  she  did?  Do  you  think 
she  knows — what  would  be  all  right  for  you  and 
me?  After  all,  you  are  Knollys  Verplanck,  of  Wall 
Street  and  Marble  Court.  This  girl — this  Marie 
may  be  perfectly  conscientious,  perfectly  respect- 
able ;  but  she  is  nothing  but  a  plain  person,  my  dear 
Knollys,  merely  a  maid,  is  she  not?"  And  with 
reassured  composure  Mrs.  Verplanck  rang  for  her. 

"What  are  you  doing?" 

Two  days  later,  and  Mr.  Verplanck  was  squinting 
his  glasses  for  a  nearer  view  of  Gladys-Marie's  trim 
stooping  figure.  The  stoop  was  over  a  bed  of  straw- 
berries, near  which  Marmaduke  sniffed  about  for 
catnip,  guileless  and  very,  very  yellow  in  the  morn- 
ing sun. 

"I'm  weedin'  this  strawb'ry-patch,"  puffed 
Gladys-Marie,  looking  up  very  flushed  in  the  face. 
"What  're  you  doing?" 

"I  am — ah — I  am  doing  just  nothing,"  admitted 


GLADYS-MARIE— A   MAID      67 

Mr.  Verplanck,  suddenly  aware  that  it  was  a  trivial 
occupation.  "But  I  should  like  to  weed  very  much 
if  I " 

"You'd  spoil  yer  clothes,"  said  Gladys-Marie, 
briefly ;  "  V  besides,  what  'd  she  say  t'  you  ?" 

Mr.  Verplanck  stopped  regarding  his  spotless 
white  flannels  and  regarded  Gladys-Marie  some- 
what sharply;  then — "She  can't  say  anything,"  he 
returned.  "She  shut  me  out  of  the  kitchen  because 
she  was  making  angel- food ;  and  whatever  I  may  do 

in  revenge I  say,  Gladys-Marie,  if  I  were  to 

change  my  clothes,  you  know?" 

"There's  a  pair  o'  Mister  Michael's  overalls  in 
the  closet  under  the  stairs,"  Gladys-Marie  relented. 
"But  you're  s'  much  taller Ain't  he  the  hand- 
some figger  of  a  man,  though?"  she  murmured  to 
Marmaduke  as  Knollys  disappeared  within  the 
house.  "An' t'  think  o'  him  cramped  up  in  a  hotel ! 
My  eye!  he'd  ought  a  have  the  whole  world  t'  run 
around  in!" 

And  Marmaduke  blinked  assent  as  he  swept  his 
yellow  tail  majestically  among  the  tall  grasses. 


68          THE  UNPRETENDERS 


"Y'  see,"  said  Gladys-Marie,  when  she  had 
turned  over  her  trowel  to  Knollys,  "this  is  Lady 
Elinore's  strawb'ry-patch,  'n'  while  she's  away  I 
gotta  keep  it  goin'  fer  her.  D'ye  ever  notice,  Mister 
Verplanck,  how  much  more  ye  feel  like  doin'  fer 
other  folks  w'en  y're  in  the  country?  In  the  city 
it's  ev'ry  kid  fer  'imself,  'n'  a  rush  t'  get  the  main 
graft  first.  But  in  th'  country,  seems  like  there's 
time  fer  other  people,  s'  much  time  that  yerself  kind 
a  fergits  its  kickin'." 

Again  Mr.  Verplanck  glanced  penetratingly  at 
her,  the  plain  conscientious  person;  but  the  curve 
of  a  pink  ear  was  all  that  he  could  see.  The  rest  of 
Gladys-Marie  seemed  to  have  been  absorbed  by 
the  strawberry-bed. 

"I  guess  I  never  told  you  about  George — the  swell 
middy  I'm  engaged  to?"  From  the  green  leaves  the 
friendly  voice  went  on  unself-consciously.  "He's 
gotta  serve  another  year  yet,  an'  honest,  Mister 
Verplanck,  before  I  come  to  th'  country  I  took  on 
worse  'n  any  Deserted  at  th'  Altar,  over  the  dee-lay. 
I  was  thinkin'  all  th'  time  about  me  clothes,  'n'  how 


GLADYS-MARIE— A   MAID      69 

we  ed  board  for  a  year  er  two,  George  'n'  me,  so's 
t'  put  on  a  little  more  style,  y'  know.  But  now — 
well,  I  tell  y'  on  the  straight,  since  I  got  this  coun- 
try habit,  style  kinda  strikes  me  like  movin'  picters 
at  a  vaudyville.  I'm  s'  keen  on  the  main  show,  I 
ain't  no  time  t'  waste  on  it.  So  George  'n'  I  're 
goin'  t'  be  married  next  June,  out  here;  'n'  we're 
goin'  to  have  a  House !" 

When  she  said  that,  Gladys-Marie  looked  up  with 
a  smile  that  did  things  to  Knollys's  throat.  A 
House ! 

"Nollsie!  Nollsie!"  Before  he  could  answer  the 
little  maid,  some  one  called  from  the  kitchen  porch. 
"I'm  going  to  make  the  icing  now — you  can  come 
and  help,  if  you  like."  Looking  up  from  the  straw- 
berry-patch, one  could  see  Ellen,  pink-cheeked  and 
swayingly  girlish  in  her  blue  cotton  frock.  "Why, 
Nollsie  Verplanck!"  As  she  caught  sight  of  the 
overalls  her  laugh  rang  out  as  Knollys  had  almost 
forgotten  it  used  to  ring.  "Whatever  are  you 
doing?" 

"There — run  along,  quick!"     Gladys-Marie  took 


70          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

the  trowel  from  him  with  an  impetuous  hurry. 

"Don't  che  see  ?  She  wants  ye  t'  help  her ! 'N' 

what  I  was  ever  s'  cross-eyed  's  to  call  her  plain  for, 
it  'ud  take  a  couple  o'  Con-an  Doyles  t'  tell  me! 
Don't  it  beat  Paree  how  some  people  c'n  get  all  their 
best  points  brought  out  by  chambray  at  'leven  cents 
th'  yard?"  And  Gladys-Marie  looked  up  wistfully 
at  the  two  just  disappearing  into  the  kitchen.  She 
would  have  liked  to  go  in  and  make  icing  with  them, 
as  she  often  did  with  Lady  Elinore;  but  something 
back  of  her  pompadour  reminded  that  she  was 
•merely  a  maid.  So  she  sighed,  and  went  on  weed- 
ing Lady  Elinore's  strawberry-patch. 

In  the  kitchen,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Knollys  Verplanck 
(of  Wall  Street  and  Marble  Court)  sat  opposite 
each  other,  with  a  big  yellow  bowl  between  them. 
The  blue  of  Mr.  Verplanck's  overalls  exactly 
matched  the  blue  of  Mrs.  Verplanck's  cotton  frock. 

"Great  eye  for  color,  Anne  and  Michael,  ain't 
they?"  reflected  Mr.  Verplanck,  mildly,  as  he  sifted 
sugar  into  white  of  egg,  with  some  absorption. 
"But  a  blessed  good  thing  they  left  some  of  their 


GLADYS-MARIE— A   MAID      71 

clothes  around.  Ours  are  rather — er — too  exotic 
for  this  atmosphere." 

"Well,  one  could  hardly  bake  a  cake  in  white 
broadcloth,  could  one?"  defended  Mrs.  Verplanck, 
as  though  an  excuse  demanded  itself. 

"I  never  knew  one  could  bake  a  cake  at  all,"  re- 
turned her  husband,  watching  the  clever  white  hands 
admiringly. 

"Mother  taught  me  before  I  was  married;  but  of 
course  at  the  hotel " 

"Exactly."  There  was  something  so  suggestive 
in  Knollys's  complete  understanding  that  Mrs. 
Knollys  glanced  at  him  suspiciously  from  under  her 
thick  black  lashes. 

"Anyway,  we  go  back  on  Monday,"  she  reassured 
herself,  aloud.  "I — it  will  seem  natural  to  have 
some  one  to  order  about  once  more,  won't  it  ?  With 
this  Gladys-Marie  I  find  myself  falling  quite  into 
Anne's  lax  indulgence — why,  do  you  know,  Nollsie, 
this  morning  I  even  dusted  the  hall  for  her,  and 
sewed  a  fresh  frill  on  her  cap.  Fancy !" 

"I  suppose  that's  what  Anne  does  while  Michael's 


72          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

writing  books,"  fancied  Knollys,  dropping  vanilla 
with  fascinated  attention.  "Rather  fun,  isn't  it?" 

"Oh,  for  a  while,  perhaps,"  acknowledged  Ellen, 
carelessly.  "Of  course  we're  having  great  larks 
playing  at  it,  this  week,  and  the  house  is  sweet,  but 
— after  all,  I'd  rather  have  a  little  bit  more  tone, 
wouldn't  you,  Knollys?" 

"Gladys-Marie  wouldn't,"  said  Knollys,  gazing 
out  toward  the  strawberry-patch.  "She  says  she's 
so  keen  on  the  main  show  that  she  has  no  time  to 
think  about  style  and  things." 

"The  main  show?"    Ellen  looked  up,  puzzled. 

"Getting  married,  you  know,  and — a  House.  A 
House  in  the  country." 

"Oh !"  For  some  minutes  Ellen  stirred  in  silence. 
Then  suddenly  she  set  the  bowl  down  on  the  table 
and  untied  her  apron.  "I  think" — she  took  Knollys 
firmly  by  the  hand — "we  will  go  up  and  put  on  our 
own  clothes.  Gladys-Marie  can  finish  the  icing." 

"Certainly  she  can,"  agreed  Knollys,  bewildered, 
"but  why  ?  Weren't  we  doing  it  perfectly  well  ?" 


GLADYS-MARIE— A   MAID      73 

"Too  well,"  returned  his  wife,  succinctly,  pushing 
him  before  her  out  of  the  kitchen. 

But  as  she  saw  him  safely  started  up  the  stairs, 
she  slipped  back  guiltily  for  just  one  look  at  her 
cake. 

Mrs.  Verplanck  stood  regarding  a  ragged  wreath 
of  daisies.  Across  the  centre  ran  "10  Yeres"  in 
straggling  brown-eyed-susan  capitals.  It  was  Sun- 
day morning. 

"10  Yeres"!  Something  brighter  than  the  dew 
upon  the  daisies  brimmed  Mrs.  Verplanck's  eyes 
and  fell  upon  the  awkward  little  wreath. 

"Why,  you  silly  goose,  Ellen !"  Her  friend,  Mrs. 
Deverence  (out  from  town  for  the  anniversary), 
took  her  by  the  shoulders  with  an  amused  little 
laugh.  "Getting  sentimental  over  a  bunch  of  wild 
flowers! — it  was  merely  a  maid  who  fixed  them, 
wasn't  it?" 

Mrs.  Verplanck  turned  sharply  to  answer.  Then 
she  remembered  the  words  had  a  quoted  ring. 
"Merely  a  maid,"  she  assented,  mechanically,  but 


74 

in  spite  of  her,  two  more  big  drops  of  sentiment  fell 
upon  the  daisies. 

"It's  a  good  thing  for  you  you're  going  back 
to  town  to-morrow,"  declared  Mrs.  Deverence, 
briskly.  "Another  week  of  this  morbid  country 
atmosphere " 

"It  isn't  a  morbid  atmosphere,"  contradicted  El- 
len, impolitely. 

"With  nobody  in  the  house  except  a  servant  and 
your  husband,"  went  on  the  friend  calmly.  "Tell 
me,  Ellen,  hasn't  it  seemed  awfully  odd,  having 
Knollys  about,  all  the  time  ?" 

"About,  all  the  time?"  Ellen's  amazement  was 
too  frank  to  be  mistrusted.  "Why,  my  dear  Sheila, 
I've  scarcely  seen  him.  You  see,  he  weeds  the 
strawberry-patch  every  morning,  while  I'm  dusting 
and  doing  the  flowers,  and  then  after  lunch  I  have 
my  sewing  and  practising — yes,  actually  I've  man- 
aged two  hours  a  day! — and  Knollys  always  gets 
through  his  mail  and  goes  to  the  village  to  wire  for 
stock  quotations — why,  we've  never  been  as  busy 
in  our  lives." 


GLADYS-MARIE— A   MAID      75 

"Um-m !  And  to-morrow  it  all  ends "  Mrs. 

Deverence  sat  down  very  practically  to  breakfast. 

"To-morrow — yes,  I  suppose  so."  Ellen  sat  down 
too — as  though  one  chair  had  been  pushed  from 
under  her.  "We  go  back — to  the  hotel  to-morrow." 

"And  I  see  you're  up  for  the  Four-in-Hand." 
Mrs.  Deverence's  manner  added  to  itself  blitheness 
as  the  men  came  in.  The  change  in  attitude  had 
never  before  struck  Ellen  as  artificial. 

"Yes — a  regular  club-gourmand  she's  getting  to 
be,  eh,  Knollys?"  Hawley  Deverence's  weighty 
laugh  took  heavy  possession  of  the  charming  sunny 
dining-room  as  he  slumped  into  his  chair.  "The 
women  are  usurping  us,  Nolly,  my  boy — they're 
usurping  us!" 

"And  Ellen's  such  a  complex  person,"  amended 
Mrs.  Deverence.  "A  whirl  of  committees  and 
things  just  suits  her.  Of  course" — she  looked 
brightly  at  Knollys — "this  is  all  very  well  for  a 
week,  but  for  a  lifetime !" 

"I  think  it  might  do  quite  well  for  a  lifetime," 


76          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

said  Ellen,  sitting  very  straight  as  she  poured  the 
coffee.  "Two  lumps,  Hawley?" 

"Er — thanks,  three."  Hawley  was  staring  at 
the  graceful  uplifted  hands.  "Ah — you  really  do 
that  very  well,  you  know,  Ellen,"  he  allowed,  gra- 
ciously. "Don't  think  I  ever  saw  you  pourin'  things 
before.  You've  always  been  at  the  hotel,  haven't 
you?" 

"Yes" — Ellen  looked  at  Knollys  with  a  smile  that 
had  a  twist  to  it — "always  at  the  hotel." 

When  Knollys  looked  back  at  her  there  was  some- 
thing in  his  eyes  that  seemed  to  sweep  away  ten 
years. 

"Well,"  Mrs.  Deverence  announced,  cheerfully, 
"a  house  is  very  nice — we've  had  ours  ever  since  we 
were  married ;  but  it's  a  great  care — oh,  a  shocking 

care,  really! — and  for  you,  Ellen "  she  shrugged 

her  pretty  shoulders  with  a  soft  laugh.  "I  simply 
can't  imagine  it.  A  house  for  you  would  be  a  joke !" 

"Why?"  Knollys  turned  to  her  very  quietly. 
"Why  do  you  think  so?" 

"Oh,  dear  me,  now  I  do  hope  I  haven't  said  some- 


GLADYS-MARIE— A  MAID      77 

thing  ultra,"  fluttered  Sheila.  "All  I  meant  was  the 
clubs  and  things,  you  know — dear  Ellen  has  so 
many,  and  so  much  to  do." 

"I  dare  say  you  are  right,"  said  Ellen,  slowly. 
"A  house  for  me  would  be  a  joke.  Yet — did  I  tell 
you,  Knollys,  what  Gladys-Marie  said  yesterday? 
'Always  seems  t'  me,'  she  said,  'like  a  woman's 
house  is  a  sort  of  frame  for  her,  only  some  poor 
things  don't  care  enough  about  it  t'  more'n  passe- 
partout 'emselves.' ' 

"Ha!  ha!  Smart  little  baggage,  isn't  she?" 
roared  Hawley. 

"But,  my  dear  Ellen" — Mrs.  Deverence  raised 
her  eyebrows  a  trifle — "surely  you  don't  encourage 
a  person  like  that  to  talk  so  freely  with  you  ?  Why, 
no  servant  at  the  hotel  would  dare " 

"No,"  said  Ellen,  this  time  avoiding  Knollys's 
eyes.  "No  servant  at  the  hotel;  but  Anne's  and 
Michael's  servant " 

"Still,  one  can't  take  them  as  an  example,  can 
one,  dear?  Delightful  people,  of  course,  but  a  bit 
— er— eccentric.  Her  frocks — you  know " 


78          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

"This  is  one  of  them."  Ellen  smoothed  it  with 
a  sudden  tenderness.  "I — it  has  been  a  very  nice 
frock." 

"Ahem !  A  very  decent  chap  he  is — the  husband, 
I  mean,"  put  in  Hawley,  evidently  feeling  things  a 
bit  strained.  "Writes  A-i  books,  doesn't  he?" 

"It  was  really  too  dear  of  them  to  lend  you  this 
place,  wasn't  it?"  Sheila  came  in  conscientiously 
on  her  husband's  initiative.  "Simply  a  wonderful 
house!" 

"Yes,"  agreed  Ellen  and  Knollys  simultaneously, 
"a  wonderful  house !" 

The  Deverences  were  gone.  Knollys  and  Ellen 
sat  on  the  porch  alone.  Beside  them  lay  Gladys- 
Marie's  wreath. 

"Ten  years,"  said  Knollys,  meditatively.  "Ten 
years — in  the  hotel.  And  to-morrow  we  go  back. 
To  clubs  and  Wall  Street !"  There  was  no  cynicism 
in  his  brief  laugh — just  an  ache,  a  sort  of  emptiness. 

"Knollys  Verplanck" — his  wife  laid  her  hands 
impressively  upon  his  shoulders,  and  even  through 


GLADYS-MARIE— A   MAID      79 

the  darkness  he  could  feel  the  warmth  in  her  great 
dark  eyes — "we're  not  going  back !  That's  the  only 
joke — I — oh,  those  silly  city  people!  Knollys! — 
Knollys  dear,  we're  going  to  have  a  House.  Say 
we  are !  I — I  don't  want  to  be  just  passepartouted. 
Knollys — couldn't  we— don't  you  think  we  might 
pretend  it's  ten  years  ago?  Don't  you  think  we 
might  start  over  and  be  just  plain  married  people?" 
And  Gladys-Marie,  coming  round  the  corner  of 
the  porch  just  in  time  to  see  Knollys's  answer,  stole 
noiselessly  back  into  the  house  with  Marmaduke. 
A  conscientious  person,  Gladys-Marie,  though,  after 
all,  merely  a  maid. 


IV 


SHEILA— SIMPLY  A  SOCIETY 
PERSON 

"SHE'S  the  sweetest  thing  in  the  world" — Doromea 
looked  up  extenuatingly  from  a  large  hole  in  Tim- 
othy's best  socks  that  she  was  darning — "and  ever 
so  lovable,  Sheila,  but " 

"Just  a  born  butterfly,  that's  all,"  continued  El- 
len, for  the  moment  abstracted  from  dish-towels 
piled  up  before  her  to  be  hemmed,  "a  captivating 
will-o'-the-wisp  creature,  made  to  have  things  done 
for  her — even  thought  for  her ;  a " 

"Simply  a  society  person!"  Patsy  sat  triumph- 
antly upright,  with  the  air  of  having  nutshelled  the 
whole  argument.  "Can  you  imagine  Sheila,  sitting 
here  on  Ellen's  porch,  with  anything  but  a  bridge 
score  or  a  cup  of  tea  in  her  hand?  Fancy  her  mak- 

80 


SHEILA— A    SOCIETY    PERSON    81 

ing  baby-clothes!"  There  was  a  pitying  smile  for 
the  defrauded  Sheila  as  Patsy  bent  again  over  the 
filmy  microscopic  thing  that  she  was  stitching. 

"She  did  do  that  clever  little  sketch  for  us  to  act 
at  Anne's  last  Christmas,"  suggested  Ellen,  doubt- 
fully. It  was  partly  through  Sheila  that  Ellen  had 
come  into  possession  of  her  own;  through  Sheila's 
very  superficiality  that  Ellen's  desire  for  a  house 
had  crystallized.  She  looked  about  the  cool  shaded 
porch  and  into  the  wide,  charming  rooms  of  which 
she  was  chatelaine,  and  sighed  contentedly.  "If 
only  one  could  make  her  a  bit  more  self-realiz- 
ing  " 

'Make  her  see  that  she  is  just  a  Plain  Person." 
Doromea  was  biting  thread.  "Timothy  says  that's 
where  society  people  disparage  themselves — they're 
always  imagining  themselves  something  extraor- 
dinary. But  the  bewildering  part  about  Sheila  is 
that  she  doesn't  imagine  herself  at  all;  she  simply 
pays  no  attention  to  herself." 

"Hasn't  time,"  Patsy  explained,  succinctly. 
"She's  always  at  the  Suffrage  Club  or  at  the  theatre 


82 

— you  know,  Dorry,  she  told  Anne  she  fairly  lived 
in  the  theatre — or  off  with  Hawley  somewhere. 
Of  course  I'm  terribly  fond  of  Hawley — he's  an 
excellent  person,  really,  and  makes  one  the  most 
delicious  things  to  drink;  but  as  a  husband — well, 
of  course  he  isn't  like  Warren." 

"Or  Knollys." 

"Or  Timothy!" 

The  three  wives  nodded  at  one  another  emphati- 
cally. 

"He  puffs  so,"  complained  Patsy,  returning  to 
her  mutton.  "And  all  he  ever  says  when  Sheila 
asks  him  something  is,  'Yes,  m'  dear,'  or,  'Do  jus' 
's  you  like,  darlin'.'  He  does  seem  fond  of  her — 
but  then,  so  many  men  have  been  fond  of  one.  It 
would  have  been  so  easy  for  Sheila  to  have  taken 
somebody  a  little  less — er — husky.  She's  such  a 
midget,  they  make  each  other  ridiculous." 

"Didn't  she  say  they  were  going  somewhere  to- 
gether this  afternoon,  Ellen?  Wasn't  that  the  rea- 
son she  couldn't  come  out  from  town  to  lunch  with 
us?"  The  socks  were  finished  and  folded,  and 


SHEILA— A    SOCIETY    PERSON     83 

Doromea  turned  her  attention  entirely  to  the  matter 
of  conversation. 

"Yes — that  is,  they  were  going  to  motor  out  to 
the  Claremont,  to  try  Hawley's  new  machine — how 
is  it  that  society  people  always  have  a  new  machine? 
— and  then  to  look  at  some  ponies  for  the  twins. 
Sheila  said  she'd  get  Hawley  to  drop  her  here  before 
he  went  back  to  town,  if  there  was  time;  she  must 
be  at  the  Elbert  Lewises'  for  tea,  she  said,  and  get 
home  to  dine  early.  It  seems  there's  a  first  night  of 
something.  Did  you  ever  hear  such  a  programme ! 
How  she  keeps  that  pink  and  white  look  is  what  I 
can't  fathom — bridge  until  all  hours,  and  then  day 
after  day  of  mad  rushing  about — all  for  what? 
I'm  sure  /  never  knew,  when  I  was  doing  it !  Why, 
when  I  contrast  that  ten  years  of  slavery  with  this 
last  one "  Ellen's  great  dark  eyes  softened  hap- 
pily. "And  Knollys  was  just  as  miserable  as  I;  he 
confesses  it,  now  that  we've  emancipated  ourselves 
from  hotels  and  clubs  and  things.  Poor  Sheila!  If 
she'd  only  realize — for  I  suppose  even  butterflies 
must  get  tired  of  flying." 


84          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

"They're  always  wanting  to  fly  just  a  little 
higher."  Patsy  wagged  her  auburn  head  saga- 
ciously. "And  then  they're  determined  that  the 
children  shall  simply  soar — Sheila  says  quite  naively 
that  her  ambition  for  the  twins  is  too  enormous  to 
be  taken  seriously  by  any  one  else  than  herself.  I 
dare  say  she  wants  Margretta  to  marry  a  duke,  and 
Maurice  to  distinguish  himself  in  polo,  or  something 
of  the  sort.  Now  all  I  ask  for  the  Angel  is  that  he 
sha'n't  be  President;  I  just  won't  have  him  bully 
me." 

Doromea  and  Ellen  looked  at  each  other;  and — 
quickly — looked  away  again.  They  had  no  children. 

But  Doromea  smoothed  Timothy's  socks  upon 
her  lap  with  very  much  the  same  tenderness  that 
Patsy  smoothed  the  tiny  frock.  "The  Angel's  a 
dear,"  said  Doromea.  "So  are  Maurice  and  Mar- 
gretta, even  though  they  are  society  children.  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  they  do  other  things  besides 
dukes  and  polo  later  on.  Sheila  herself  may  get 
to  want  them  to." 

Ellen  shook  her  head.     "Not  as  long  as  she  re- 


SHEILA— A    SOCIETY    PERSON    85 

mains  simply  a  society  person.  It's  like  running 
round  and  round  in  a  chariot-race,  always  pushing 
desperately  to  get  ahead,  but  never  able  to  make  a 
wide-enough  swing  outside  the  circle  that's  been 
laid  out.  Poor  Sheila!" 

"Absolutely  conventional!"  In  her  conviction 
Patsy  broke  her  needle.  "Must  be  deadly  for  her. 
Just  suppose  she'd  slid  down  the  banisters !" 

"It  would  have  been  a  fad  with  the  younger  mar- 
ried set  for  a  whole  week,"  supplemented  Ellen. 
"Sheila  leads  them  all  about  by  the  nose,  her  so- 
ciety. Well,"  with  a  sigh,  "I  wish  she'd  come.  Even 
her  affectations  are  charming;  it's  only  to  herself 
that  she  doesn't  do  justice.  To  other  people  she's 
delightful." 

"I  wish  she'd  come,  too,"  joined  in  Doromea. 
"Somehow  I  never  have  time  to  go  to  see  her — it's 
such  an  undertaking  to  go  in  to  town." 

"And  it  used  to  be  such  an  undertaking  to  come 
out,"  Ellen  laughed.  "I  think  it's  rather  sweet  of 
Sheila  to  bother.  Ah" — as  a  cloud  of  dust  came 


86          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

round  the  corner  of  the  road — "there  she  is  now — 
at  least  I  suppose  she  will  emerge  shortly." 

And  in  another  minute  she  had  emerged;  a  tiny, 
wild-rose  sort  of  creature,  all  fluffy  chiffons  and  fly- 
ing yellow  curls — a  baby,  you  would  have  said,  until 
you  saw  her  reach  up  and  kiss  her  husband. 

"Wasn't  he  a  darling  to  bring  me  ?"  she  asked  the 
other  women,  when  he  and  the  machine  had  van- 
ished down  the  drive.  "He  had  two  men  to  see  by 
three  o'clock,  and  a  simply  terrifically  important 
race  to  follow ;  but  he  brought  me  out  just  the  same. 
And  he's  coming  back  for  me — those  wretched  El- 
bert  Lewises! — but  I  promised  Peter  Butler  I'd  go 
to  something  of  theirs;  they  took  care  of  Peter 
when  he  broke  his  knee  that  time,  and  as  long  as 
he's  my  cousin — well,  what  I  meant  to  say  in  the 
very  first  place  was,  how  are  you  all?  Patsy, 
where's  the  Angel?" 

"Up-stairs  on  Ellen's  bed,  asleep,"  returned 
Patsy,  promptly.  "Want  to  go  look  at  him?" 

"Rather!"  Sheila  was  tugging  at  the  strings  of 
her  frilly  blue  motor-bonnet.  "There! — and  I'll 


SHEILA— A    SOCIETY    PERSON    87 

just  shed  this  coat,  too;  then  I  can't  get  him  the 
least  bit  dusty."  She  was  out  of  the  coat  in  a  sec- 
ond, and  more  childish  than  ever  in  her  simple  rose- 
colored  frock. 

"Fancy  Sheila  thinking  about  getting  dust  on  the 
baby!"  Doromea  turned  to  Ellen,  as  the  two  ri- 
diculously young  mothers  disappeared  inside  the 
house. 

"A  society  person  with  ideas  on  hygiene !"  echoed 
Ellen. 

"He  does  look  so  well  and  rosy."  Sheila  peered 
wistfully  at  Patsy's  Angel  from  under  her  long 
curling  eyelashes.  "And  in  Washington,  too,  you 
can  keep  him  always  out-of-doors — there  are  so 
many  squares  and  flowery  places." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Patsy,  cheerfully.  "There  are 
dozens  of  parks  for  him  in  Washington;  though  I 
always  look  forward  to  this  real  country  when  we 
come  to  visit  Timothy  and  Dorry." 

"The  twins  have  only  our  back  yard,"  reflected 
Sheila,  her  wide  blue  eyes  very  serious.  "Hawley 


88          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

got  them  swings  and  a  sand-pile,  but — it's  always 
city  for  them;  and  they're  four  years  old  now." 

"Why  don't  you  send  them  to  the  Park — Central 
Park,  I  mean?"  Patsy's  impulsive  sympathy 
darted  at  once  to  the  most  obvious  idea. 

"I  couldn't  go  with  them,"  said  Sheila,  simply. 
"They  would  have  to  play  with  their  governess,  and 
they  wouldn't  like  that.  You  see,  when  we  come 
home,  either  Hawley  or  I,  we  can  always  run  down 
to  the  yard  with  them  right  away.  But  it's  rather 
grim  and  stiff  for  them,  poor  dears,  with  only  trees 
in  tubs  and  a  fence  all  round.  Some  day  perhaps 
we  can  afford  to  live  in  the  country." 

"Oh!"  Patsy's  glance  was  rather  blank.  If  she 
had  not  known  Sheila  to  be  simply  a  society  person, 
she  would  have  suspected  her  of  trying  to  make  an 
epigram.  But,  as  Ellen  said,  Sheila  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  herself — it  would  never  have  occurred  to 
her  to  attempt  being  clever. 

"How  was  the  new  machine  ?"  asked  Patsy,  steer- 
ing away  from  what  she  did  not  understand. 

Sheila's  lovely  little  face  beamed.    "Hawley  was 


SHEILA— A    SOCIETY    PERSON    89 

so  pleased  over  it!  He  says  it's  a  rip-snorter — the 
bulliest  engine  he's  had  yet!"  Hawley's  large  en- 
thusiasm came  quaintly  from  the  small,  almost  in- 
fantile mouth.  "I'm  so  delighted;  though  it-^it 
does  go  rather  fast.  I  had  to  hold  on  to  the  rail 
all  the  way  out." 

"I'm  crazy  over  them  when  they  go  fast,"  pro- 
tested Patsy,  relapsing  into  her  old  sportsman  ver- 
nacular. "At  the  Vanderbilt  Cup  race " 

"Ah!  You  saw  the  play,  then?  You  remem- 
ber  "  and  the  babyish  features  lit  up  with  a 

something  that  made  downright  Patsy  blink  with 
surprise,  as  Sheila  went  on  to  enumerate  certain 
scenes  in  the  play,  certain  thrilling  passages — quot- 
ing, explaining,  mimicking — so  eagerly  that  one 
had  not  the  heart  or  any  longer  the  interest  to 
explain  that  one  had  meant  the  actual  race  itself. 

Patsy  listened  absorbedly.  "And  I  never  had 
thought  she  could  talk,"  she  told  Doromea  after- 
ward. "But  then  she  really  didn't  talk;  something 
just  talked  through  her." 

The  something  kept  on  talking,  until  Ellen  came 


90          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

and  "shooed"  them  downstairs  to  the  porch  and 
Doromea.  "Here  I've  been  waiting  for  days  to  see 
Sheila,  and  now  you  two  go  off  and  look  at  a  year- 
old  baby  the  whole  while!  Tell  me,  Sheila,  when 
are  you  going  to  free  yourself  of  clubs  and  bridge 
and  suffrage  leagues  and  theatres  and  things?" 

"When  Hawley  makes  me,"  answered  Sheila,  se- 
renely. She  was  fumbling  for  something  in  her 
exquisite  little  gold  bag — a  half-finished  lace  collar 
it  rolled  out  to  be.  "I'm  just  crocheting  this  bit  of 
fluff  for  Margretta,"  she  explained,  laughing  a  de- 
licious, gurgling  sort  of  laugh.  "Isn't  it  a  joke?  I 
carry  it  about  with  me,  and  work  on  it  between  acts 
— I  did  two  rows  in  bed  this  morning — Fanchon 
was  late  with  my  breakfast — and  then  lots  more 
during  the  lectures  at  the  Mechanics'  Association." 

"The  Mechanics'  Association?"  bolted  Doromea. 

"Yes — every  Thursday  at  noon,  you  know." 
Sheila  was  counting  stitches  busily.  "Air-ships  it 
was  to-day — the  most  thrilling  subject." 

"Oh !"    Doromea  sat  back  again.    Air-ships ;  one 


SHEILA— A    SOCIETY    PERSON     91 

could  understand.  Society  was  engrossed  with  air- 
ships just  at  present. 

"I  do  hope  Maurice  will  take  to  air-ships,"  mur- 
mured Sheila,  dreamily.  "He's  so  given  over  to 
fireworks  now — some  part  of  him's  always  ex- 
ploded. If  he  keeps  it  up,  he'll  look  a  guy  by  the 
time  he's  old  enough  to  lead  cotillons."  Behind 
Sheila's  back,  Ellen  and  Patsy  and  Doromea  ex- 
changed a  triumvirate  "I  told  you  so" ;  if  it  was  not 
polo,  it  was  less  than  polo ;  cotillons ! 

"And  Margretta,"  suggested  Ellen,  wondering  if 
Sheila  would  have  looked  as  absolutely  charming 
had  she  been  hemming  dish-towels  instead  of  cro- 
cheting Irish  lace,  "what  is  Margretta's  raison  de 
v'wre?" 

"Margretta  is  going  to  be  an  actress,"  said  Mar- 
gretta's mother,  slowly.  "She  is  absorbed  with 
playing  Little  Red  Riding-hood  to  Peter  Butler's 
wolf  at  the  moment.  But  later  she  will  be  playing 
— other  things  in  Peter  Butler's  theatres.  It  saves 
so  much  management,  having  a  cousin  who  owns 
things  one  wants  to  enter." 


92          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

"And  when  your  two  offspring  are  at  their  sepa- 
rate vocations,"  Doromea  smiled  above  the  childish 
curly  head,  "while  the  one  is  whirring  furiously 
through  the  air,  and  the  other  acknowledging  a 
triumphant  series  of  curtain-calls,  what  will  you 
be  doing?  Where  will  you  and  Hawley  be?" 

"Oh,  I !"  Sheila  shook  her  hair  all  into  her 

eyes,  as  she  laughed,  gayly  insouciant.  "I  shall  be 
still  in  society,  of  course — simply  a  society  butter- 
fly !  Hawley  and  I  shall  be  still  giving  dinners  and 
going  to  Elbert  Lewises'  and  living  within  call  of 
Wall  Street  and  our  clubs.  And  perhaps — when  we 
feel  specially  bored — we  shall  sneak  down  and  play 
in  the  sand-pile.  But  we  shall  always  be  doing  the 
conventional,  Hawley  and  I — just  Plain  People, 
like  the  ones  in  Timothy's  stories"  (she  turned  to 
Doromea  with  a  little  nod  of  homage)  ;  "it  is  the 
children  who  must  accomplish  the  extraordinary. 
As  Hawley  says,  we  shall  just  be  going  round  the 
same  old  track,  taking  the  same  old  hurdles — and 
happy  as  larks  at  it!" 

The  careless,  rippling  voice  stopped;  for  some 


SHEILA— A    SOCIETY    PERSON    93 

reason  Ellen  and  Doromea  had  caught  up  their  sew- 
ing again,  and  were  stitching  away  at  a  hectic  pace. 
Patsy  decided  with  great  suddenness  that  she  must 
go  up  and  wake  the  baby.  Dumbness  seemed  to 
have  seized  everybody — except  Sheila.  But  then  a 
society  person  is  expected  to  keep  on  talking. 

"That  reminds  me — I  meant  to  speak  of  it  when 
I  first  came — can't  you  come  with  me  one  night  to 
see  this  play,  The  Rut,  that  Peter's  putting  on? 
He's  given  me  a  box  for  all  next  week,  knowing  how 
I've  always  remained  the  matinee  girl!" — Sheila's 
face  looked  up  for  a  moment  from  Margretta's  col- 
lar with  an  appealing  ingenuousness — "and  it  would 
be  jolly  if  we  could  all  go ;  you  two  and  Knollys  and 
Timothy.  Patsy,  too,  if  she  could  be  persuaded 
while  Warren  is  away,  and  if  she'll  leave  the  Angel. 
I  don't  know  much  about  the  play's  merits,"  added 
Sheila,  indifferently.  "But — they  say  it's  being 
talked  about  a  good  deal." 

"Timothy  says  it's  the  most  subtle  satire  of  our 
generation,"  put  in  Doromea,  eagerly.  "He's  been 
trying  to  get  seats  for  us  all  week,  but  it  was  quite 


94          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

impossible.  You  see,  a  critic  took  him  the  first 
night,  but  they  had  to  stand  the  whole  time — it  is 
good  of  you  to  ask  us,  Sheila !" 

"That  play  is  absolutely  the  only  thing  that  could 
get  me  to  town  on  a  June  night,"  chimed  in  Ellen. 
"But  that — why,  it's  been  running  only  ten  days, 
and  already  it  is  a  classic;  what  a  pity  the  author 
can't  be  here  to  receive  his  ovation!  Mr.  Butler 
gave  it  out  that  the  man  who  wrote  it  is  abroad, 
and  won't  even  allow  his  identity  to  be  divulged. 
So  extraordinary,  in  this  day  of  the  fame-greedy !" 

"Perhaps  he  didn't  write  the  play  for  fame," 
suggested  Sheila,  always  continuing  to  count 
stitches.  "Perhaps  he  wrote  it  just  because  he 
couldn't  help  it;  and  now  he  wants  to  stay  a  Plain 
Person,  with  his  home  and  children  and  all." 

"He  has  children,  then?  But,  yes — of  course; 
it  said  in  the  papers  that  that  had  been  the  most 
phenomenal  part  of  his  creation — introducing  two 
perfectly  natural  children  in  a  satire  of  society! 
And  then  they  say  he  has  the  most  remarkable 
range — that  he  handles  theories  of  electricity  and 


SHEILA— A    SOCIETY    PERSON     95 

deepest  economical  problems  with  the  same  piercing 
ease  that  he  does  feminine  psychology.  The  Rut! — 
you  can't  know  what  a  treat  you'll  be  giving  us, 
Sheila." 

"Then  we'll  say  Monday  night,  shall  we  ?"  Sheila 
had  a  trick  of  reflecting  other  people's  eagerness — 
a  quick  little  turn  of  the  head,  that  was  compelling 
of  still  more  enthusiasm.  "Hawley  will  be  able  to 
go  Monday  night,  and  we  will  motor  you  out  in  the 
new  machine  afterward." 

"Heavenly !"  Doromea  forgot  that  she  had  ever 
felt — vaguely — uncomfortable,  and  dropped  her 
work  again. 

"You  are  such  satisfactory  society  people," 
sighed  Ellen.  "Except  when  you  have  to  go  away," 
she  added,  as  a  siren  blew  its  warning  up  the  drive. 

Sheila  jumped  up.  "It's  the  bondage  of  our  rut," 
she  said,  lightly,  once  more  tying  on  the  frilly  bon- 
net; "you  see,  it  is  us  this  new  playwright  has  sat- 
irized— and  idealized  a  bit  as  well,  perhaps  ?  Doesn't 
he  show  that  we  never  go  or  stay,  just  as  we  please 
—that  we're  forever  doing  the  things  we  don't  want 


96          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

to  do;  just  because  we  fit  our  groove  so  exactly? 
I  think  that's  it — awfully  serious,  isn't  it?"  Her 
laugh  rang  softly  amused  as  she  went  out  to  meet 
her  husband.  "Till  Monday,  then — you'll  meet  us 
at  the  theatre  at  half  past  eight,  and,  oh — do  bring 
Patsy — where  is  she?" 

"Coming!"  Patsy's  pretty  auburn  head  appeared 
at  the  door — over  the  Angel  whom  she  was  holding. 
"Where  am  I  to  be  brought,  Sheila?" 

"To  see  two  perfectly  natural  children!"  The 
blue  eyes  under  the  motor-hood  sought  her  hus- 
band's. "But  society  children,  I  suppose,  Hawley 
— in  The  Rut,  you  know?" 

"Yes,  m'  dear,  certainly;  jus'  's  you  say."  He 
looked  down  at  her  with  the  benignity  of  a  large 
Newfoundland. 

"To  the  Elbert  Lewises',  then — good-by,  good- 
by!"  And  Sheila's  fluffy  curls  swirled  round,  hid- 
ing her  face,  as  she  was  carried  smoothly  away. 

"In  the  groove,"  Ellen  reminded  Patsy  and  Doro- 
mea.  "The  man  who  wrote  The  Rut  was  right 
when  he  called  it  bondage,  because  the  people  fit  it 


SHEILA— A    SOCIETY    PERSON    97 

so  exactly.  Poor  little  Sheila! — there's  something 
very  pathetic  about  her  at  times." 

"It's  because  of  her  blind  satisfaction  with  sur- 
face things,"  said  Doromea. 

"Because  she's  simply  a  society  person,"  said 
Patsy. 

Monday  night,  and,  at  Peter  Butler's  Theatre, 
The  Rut  was  nearing  its  big  scene.  Doromea  and 
Timothy,  Ellen  and  Knollys,  sat  well  toward  the 
front  of  the  box — breathless  with  anticipations  re- 
alized ;  Sheila  and  her  big,  immovable  husband  were 
farther  back — out  of  sight  almost,  against  the  box 
door. 

Timothy  looked  back  at  them  anxiously.  "I  don't 
suppose  they're  thinking  much  about  it,"  he  sighed ; 
"they  look  a  good  deal  more  taken  up  with  each 
other.  And  it's  the  greatest  play  of  our  age — such 
a  shame  Patsy  didn't  come — nobody  will  ever  do 
anything  that  can  touch  it;  unless,  of  course,  the 
same  author " 

"Sheila  says  the  author  doesn't  care  to  write  any 


98          THE  UNPRETENDERS 

more,"  said  Doromea,  as  the  curtain  went  down  on 
the  first  act.  "Mr.  Butler  told  Sheila  that  if  only  the 
man  would  keep  on,  he  could  make  a  fortune  and 
anything  else  he  liked  out  of  plays.  But  he  seems 
a  strange  creature,  the  author ;  he  prefers  to  remain 
just  a  Plain  Person.  No  one  even  knows  his  name, 
except  Peter  Butler." 

"Then  how  do  they  know  he's  a  man?"  asked 
Timothy,  suddenly.  "Very  probably,  you  know,  he 

isn't I  say,  Dorry,  Mr.  Butler's  coming  into 

the  box.  After  this  next  act  I'm  going  to  ask  him." 

"Are  you  enjoying  it?"  Sheila  called,  her  smile 
including  Ellen  and  Knollys.  She  was  a  veritable 
bit  of  froth  to-night,  Sheila,  a  Dresden  shepherdess 
in  a  cloud  of  chiffons. 

"It's  splendid!"  Ellen  answered  for  them  all. 
"But  we  want  to  know  about  the  author,  Sheila — 
Timothy  thinks  it  may  be  a  woman,  and " 

"I  want  to  ask  Mr.  Butler,"  said  Timothy,  look- 
ing at  the  manager,  who  was  absorbed  in  conversa- 
tion with  Hawley.  "You  see,"  he  smiled  at  Sheila, 


SHEILA— A    SOCIETY    PERSON    99 

"I've  gone  quite  foolish  over  this  play ;  it  has  stirred 
me  so  enormously  that " 

"Wait  until  after  this  second  act."  Sheila's  small, 
frivolous  head  was  bent  over  an  unruly  glove-but- 
ton. "Peter  has  an  announcement  to  make  then, 
something  or  other  about  this  author  creature,  and 
it  might  throw  some  light  on  what  you  want  to 
know.  I  think  I'll  go  outside  for  a  bit,"  she  added, 
as  the  curtain  went  up.  "One  gets  so  warm — and 
I've  seen  the  play  before." 

Ellen  and  Doromea  looked  after  her.  Then 
they  looked  at  each  other.  "If  only  she  could  be 
brought  to  realize  herself,"  was  in  their  eyes. 
"Overlooking  the  big  scene  in  the  biggest  play  of 
her  time  because  one  gets  warm — and  she  has  seen 
it  before !  Poor  Sheila !" 

Then  the  scene  was  on,  and  they  forgot  all  about 
Sheila.  Doromea  sat  close  to  the  box  rail,  and 
when  once  in  a  while  she  came  to,  stole  a  second  to 
look  at  Timothy,  whose  eyes  were  round  and  send- 
ing out  little  sparks  behind  his  glasses.  Knollys 
and  Ellen  sat  on  the  edge  of  their  chairs,  oblivious 


100        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

even  of  each  other.  But  in  the  back  of  the  box  was 
a  man  who  paid  the  deepest  attention  of  them  all; 
who  watched  the  stage  with  only  less  interest  than 
he  ordinarily  watched  Sheila.  His  big  thumbs  held 
a  book,  which  he  followed  closely  as  he  followed  the 
play ;  a  conscientious  creature,  Hawley,  though  per- 
haps not  like  Warren,  or  Knollys,  or  Timothy. 

When  the  curtain  went  down,  he  sat  back  and 
wiped  his  forehead  exhaustedly;  though  he  had 
come  every  night,  it  was  always  the  same.  The 
others  were  sitting  back  too,  limp  with  the  wonder 
of  the  playwright's  conception. 

"And  now  for  the  announcement."  Timothy 
drew  a  long  breath. 

Peter  Butler  had  come  out  before  the  footlights : 
his  clever,  shrewd  face  was  very  keen.  "Playgo- 
ers," he  began,  slowly,  "have  certain  rights  that  are 
all  their  own ;  one  right  is  to  adore  the  star,  another 
to  hear  the  author  make  a  speech.  This  play  has 
been  running  two  weeks  now,  and  still  the  author 
has  not  satisfied  the  theatregoer's  curiosity  about 
= — herself."  He  paused  a  moment  to  let  the  revela- 


SHEILA— A    SOCIETY    PERSON  101 

tion  sink  in — "herself."  "To-night,  however,  she 
has  decided  to  break  her  silence.  I  will  let  her  tell 
you  why." 

He  stepped  back  into  the  wings ;  there  was  an  ex- 
cited buzz — which  grew  into  an  uproar,  and  cries 
of  "Author!"  "Author!"  followed  each  other  with 
an  enthusiasm  headed  by  the  group  in  Sheila's  box. 
They  were  on  the  qui  vive,  impatient,  insistent ;  all 
except  Hawley,  who  simply  sat  quietly  stolid,  like 
an  excellent  husband-person. 

"I  could  shake  him !"  declared  Ellen  to  Doromea, 
her  eyes  always  on  the  stage.  "This  dazzling  play 
— and  now  the  author,  and — oh!"  She  stopped 
with  a  quick  gasp,  as  once  more  the  curtains  parted 
and  out  in  front  stepped — Sheila!  "Why,  what — 
what "  Sheila's  two  friends  fell  back  speech- 
less. It  was  the  small  butterfly  creature  who  spoke 
now — deliberately,  and  with  a  faintly  smiling 
friendliness.  She  stood  scarcely  five  feet  in  her 
tiny,  frivolous  French  slippers,  a  wide-eyed  rose- 
leaf  doll,  in  a  halo  of  golden  curls  and  gossamer  rose 
fluff,  before  the  dark  dignity  of  the  velvet  curtain. 


102        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

"Yes,  I  wrote  it,"  she  confessed,  looking  out  over 
the  crowd  without  an  atom  of  self-consciousness. 
"I  didn't  want  to  tell,  because  I've  always  wanted 
the  twins  to  do  the  extraordinary.  I  wanted  to  stay 
just  their  mother.  But  Mr.  Butler  says  it  will  help 
the  play  if  people  know  who  wrote  it;  and  I  want 
to  help  the  play.  It's  a  good  play?"  Like  Peter 
Pan,  she  searched  their  faces  eagerly.  "You  think 
it's  a  good  play,  don't  you?" 

"Yes!" 

"Well,  rather!" 

"Youbetcherlife!" 

Sheila  dimpled.  "Then  it's  all  right.  I  don't 
mind  your  knowing ;  and  I  can  stay  on  in  The  Rut' 
— it's  not  such  a  bad  rut,"  she  pleaded.  "I've  dug 
it  to  pieces  for  you,  but  for  myself  I  have  had  to 
put  it  together  again,  since  the  groove  of  it  is  my 
life.  After  all,  you  see,  the  author  is  just  a  plain, 
ordinary  person !"  With  a  gay  little  nod  she  slipped 
back  behind  the  scenes,  and  so  to  Hawley. 

"That  is  all  I  am,  isn't  it,  Hawley?"  she  asked, 
hiding  herself  behind  his  bigness,  as  the  applause 


SHEILA— A    SOCIETY    PERSON  103 

rose  more  and  more  enthusiastic.  "Simply  a  society 
person  and  your  wife — the  mother  of  the  twins." 

"Yes,  darlin' — certainly;  jus'  's  you  say."  But 
this  time  Hawley's  expression  was  quite  satisfactory 
to  Ellen  and  Doromea. 

"And  we  said  she  didn't  realize  herself" — Doro- 
mea turned  to  Ellen — "we  said  she  could  never 
swing  wide  enough  to  get  outside  the  circle !  Ellen !" 

"Just  shows  we  have  a  rut  all  our  own,  doesn't 
it?"  Ellen  was  wiping  her  eyes  joyously.  "We 
hadn't  the  sense  to  see  that  she  was  staying  in  hers 
voluntarily — that  she  was  creating  an  ideal  society 
person!" 

"And  they're  the  most  rarely  plain  people  of  all," 
added  Timothy — not  without  reverence. 


V 


WARNER— WHAT  ELSE  BUT  A 
WAG? 

".  .  .  Just  as  I  was  telling  Timmie  the  other  night, 
when  a  man's  serious — and  only  then — his  trouble 
begins!  Well,  I  must  be  tripping  along;  promised 
to  help  Sheila  give  Lady  Trotworthy  tea — the  dear 
old  soul's  mind  isn't  so  light  on  its  feet  any  more, 
you  know.  Bye-bye,  Hawley.  Bye,  Plunkett." 
Warner  threw  his  coat  over  his  shoulder  and  de- 
parted. 

Hawley  moved  his  feet  still  an  inch  higher  on  one 
of  the  Club's  red  leather  chairs.  "Awful'  good  fel- 
low, Warner,"  he  vouchsafed,  as  intelligibly  as  his 
cigar  would  let  him. 

"Fine,"  agreed  Plunkett  (respectfully  speaking, 
Mr.  Knollys  Verplanck)  from  the  depths  of  an- 
other red  leather  chair. 

104 


WARNER— WHAT  BUT  A  WAG?  105 

"Er — awfully  funny,  and  all  that,  you  know. 
Keeps  things  goin'.  I  don't  know  what  Sheila'd  do 
if  it  wasn't  for  Warner,  since  she  has  that  old  Eng- 
lish Someone  to  stop.  Nice  old  lady,  y'know,  but — 
well,  her  mind  is  a  bit  heavy  on  its  feet,  just  as 
Warner  said.  Don't  know  what  he'd  say  if  he 
knew  there  was  another  coming  to-morrow — an- 
other Englishwoman  I  mean,  but  nothing  like  Lady 
Trot ;  Sheila  says  this  one's  young  and  tremendously 
good-looking.  Well,  I'm  glad — for  Warner.  He 
deserves  some  kind  of  reward  after  a  week  of  Lady 
Trot.  Deuced  good  of  him  to  help  Sheila ;  he's  so — 
so  funny,  don'  che  know." 

"Very  funny,"  agreed  Verplanck  again. 

"But — but  I  say,  Plunkett" — uneasily  the  sub- 
stantial tan  boots  drew  themselves  down  from  com- 
fort, and  Hawley's  big,  solid  body  bent  confiden- 
tially toward  his  friend — "I  wouldn't  have  any  of 
these  other  chaps  hear  me,  you  know,  not  for 
worlds ;  but  I've  often  wondered — d'ye  think  War- 
ner's anything  besides  funny,  Plunkett?  D'ye  think 
— well,  what  else  but  a  wag  is  he,  eh?  7  dunno." 


106        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

"Well,  I  don't,"  said  Verplanck,  frankly;  and  he 
stared  out  across  the  crowded  Avenue,  with  an  ex- 
pression that  paid  Warner  no  little  compliment — by 
its  regret.  "I  tell  you  candidly,  Deverence,  I've 
known  Jim  Warner  now  for  nearly  twelve  years, 
and  I've  never  yet  heard  him  say  anything  but  a 
joke.  By  George,  the  other  night  at  Treadham's, 
when  that  girl's  dress  was  on  fire,  I  could  have 
killed  Warner!  There  the  girl  was,  in  flames,  and 
Warner,  with  his  eyes  right  on  her,  sitting  still  on 
the  other  side  of  the  room,  telling  a  funny  story! 
Why  half  the  people  in  the  room  didn't  know  she 
was  on  fire,  even.  I  tell  you,  it  made  me  mad — so 
mad,  I've  scarcely  been  civil  to  Jim  since." 

"D'you  say  anything  to  him  about  it?"  Haw- 
ley's  cigar  had  gone  out.  His  big,  good-humored 
face  looked  almost  earnest. 

"I  told  him — I  couldn't  help  telling  him — I 
thought  he  might  have  made  some  pretence  at  least, 
at  aiding  the  girl,  as  long  as  he  saw " 

"And  what  d' he  say?" 

"He  said  'my  dear  boy,  there  were  five  of  you  aid- 


WARNER— WHAT  BUT  A  WAG?  107 

ing  her  already.  I  never  deliberately  make  myself 
inconspicuous!'  Yes,  sir,  that  was  just  exactly  what 
he  said!" 

Hawley  swore ;  plentifully.  "And  d'ye  know,"  he 
added,  plaintive  through  his  disgust,  "Sheila  told 
me  that  was  the  funniest  story  she  ever  heard  in  her 
life;  told  me  about  it  after  we  got  home,  and  by 
Gad,  it  was  funny !  Began  with " 

"Oh,  of  course!"  Knollys  shook  his  shoulders 
impatiently.  "His  stories  always  are  funny.  He's 
always  funny.  He  can't  help  being  funny.  But 
great  Heavens,  Hawley,  he  can  help  being  nothing 
else!  It  does  seem  to  me  that  a  fellow  ought  to 
have  something  come  to  him  besides  a  laugh.  He's 
got  an  almighty  fine  face." 

"Right!"  Genuine  affection  beamed  from  Haw- 
ley's  dog-eyes.  "I — don't  you  suppose  it's  rather 
because  he — there's  never  been  any  woman,  I 
mean?"  The  big  "society  man"  lapsed  into  sudden 
shyness.  "I  think  all  that — that  sort  of  thing, 
y'know,  makes  a  tremendous  difference,  old  chap." 

The  other  man  met  his  eyes  squarely.    "So  do  I," 


108        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

he  said;  and  it  was  as  though  their  hands  had 
gripped  for  the  moment.  "Yes,  I  daresay  you're 
right :  Warner's  never  had  much  to  do  with  women 
— now  I  think  of  it,  I've  never  seen  him  with  one, 
except  Ellen  and  Sheila,  and  then  only  at  parties, 
or  when  there's  some  guest  to  help  entertain,  like 
now  at  your  house.  Odd,  too,  for  Warner's  just 
the  sort  that  ought  to  succeed  with  a  woman " 

"Yes" — Hawley  nodded — "devilish  good-lookin', 
plenty  of  money,  and  er — what  d'ye  call  it?  Debo- 
nair, y'know;  um-m,  that's  it,  debonair.  Asked 
Sheila  what  it  meant,  and  she  said  the  sort  of  per- 
son who  could  tell  you  his  own  tragedy  as  though 
it  were  some  one's  else.  Poor  little  Sheila!  I'll 
bet  she's  having  her  own  troubles  this  afternoon — 
a  tea-party  and  Lady  Trot  all  together — whew! 
S'pose  I'd  better  run  along  and  help  'em  out,  what?" 
He  drained  his  glass  regretfully.  "Come  up  for  a 
bit,  Plunkett?" 

"Thanks" — Knollys  too  was  reaching  for  his  hat 
— "I've  to  do  'notions'  for  Ellen:  beeswax  and 
binding-tape,  and  er — ah,  yes!  Elastic,  you  know! 


WARNER— WHAT  BUT  A  WAG?  109 

Pale  blue,  a  yard  and — and  how  much,  Hawley?" 
Mr.  Verplanck's  aristocratic  nose  wrinkled  thought- 
fully. "Blessed  if  I  know/' 

Hawley  roared.  "Come  on  up,  when  you've 
found  out,"  he  called,  as  they  left  each  other  at  the 
foot  of  the  Club  steps.  "Warner's  sure  to  have 
some  ripping  story  for  us ;  so — er — so  deuced  funny, 
y'know,  Warner!" 

In  Sheila's  charming  octagon  room,  an  impatient 
little  group  of  people  crowded  about  some  one 
seated  cross-legged  on  a  quaint  Chinese  stool. 
"Come,  Sheila,  do  make  him!  He's  such  a  lazy 
beggar " 

"And  he's  had  his  eternal  three  cups  of  tea; 
there's  not  a  particle  of  excuse " 

"Warner,  you  Sphinx,  unravel!  We're  waiting, 
these  fifteen  minutes;  why  are  you  invited,  d'ye 
suppose,  if  not  to  tell  stories?  You're  no  good  at 
all  en  tete-a-tete,  you  know." 

"My  dear  Mr.  Warner  (it  was  a  delightfully  ugly 
old  lady  in  a  marvelous  tea-gown,  who  spoke  to 


110        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

him),  I'm  afraid  you  really  must  gratify  them. 
Such  noise — and  my  poor  neuralgia — really!" 

The  person  on  the  tabouret  raised  his  careless  at- 
tractive face  to  her,  smiling.  "You  win,  Lady  Trot ! 
What  shall  it  be,  Sheila?  Broad  farce,  or  scream- 
ing tragedy?  Nothing  so  appallingly  funny,  you 
know,  as  a  really  tremendous  tragedy." 

"Then  tell  us  one,"  commanded  Sheila — a  veri- 
table bit  of  her  own  Dresden  china,  as  she  glanced  at 
him  over  the  tea-cups.  She  was  genuinely  fond  of 
Warner,  the  little  society  lady;  his  sense  of  the  dra- 
matic, something  told  her,  made  them  subtly  kin. 
"Tell  us  the  most  awful — and  the  funniest — tragedy 
you  can  think  of,  Jim,  an  original  one,  you  know." 
And  Sheila  pushed  her  chair  back  from  the  tea- 
table,  and  curled  down  into  it,  in  a  luxury  of  an- 
ticipation. 

"All  right" — Warner's  drawl  came  a  bit  slower 
than  usual;  he  was  sitting  forward,  gazing  steadily 
at  the  fire — "I'll  tell  you  one.  It — I'm  quite  sure  it's 
original,  that  it's  never  been  told  before.  Because," 


WARNER— WHAT  BUT  A  WAG?  Ill 

he  laughed  contagiously,  looking  around  at  all  of 
them,  "it  was  my  tragedy,  you  see!" 

"Yours — ha !  ha !"  Every  one  was  laughing  with 
him,  as  they  drew  their  chairs  into  a  closer  circle. 
"A  tragedy  that  happened  to  Jim!  That's  a  good 
one.  Go  on,  Jim;  it  starts  rippingly!" 

Warner  balanced  a  plate  of  frivolous  pink  cakes 
on  one  of  his  crossed  knees ;  his  eyes,  as  he  regarded 
them,  were  full  of  negligent  amusement.  "She — 
that's  the  way  all  tragedies  begin,  of  course — was  a 
bachelor  girl,  and  lived  in  a  flat.  Nothing  very 
original  about  that,  but  then  she  was  the  sort  of 
girl  who  made  the  commonplace  very  nice.  She 
even  made  me  very  nice — for  a  time:  at  least  so 
people  told  me.  And  out  of  sheer  gratitude,  I  sup- 
pose, I — silly  ass ! — fell  in  love  with  her." 

"Haw!  Haw!"  It  was  Hawley's  large  roar 
that  interrupted.  He  had  just  come  in,  and  was 
standing  near  the  door.  "Warner  in  love ! — that's 
the  best  yet !  Nothing  that  chap  won't  tell,  for  the 
sake  of  a  story.  Funny  old  Warner !" 

"Fact."     Warner  grinned  back  at  him.     "Well, 


112        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

naturally,  when  I  realized  the  shocking  state  I  was 
in,  I  set  about  to  pry  into  the  lady's  emotions.  But 
nialheureusemcnt,  I  found  she  hadn't  any.  That  is, 
not  for  me.  There  were  other  men — oh,  a  disgust- 
ing lot  of  other  men! — with  whom  she  was  shy, 
coquette,  difficult — all  the  encouraging  things,  you 
know ;  but  with  me  she  remained  always  that  fright- 
ful neutrality,  one's  Platonic  friend.  So,  things 
went ;  I  mean,  stood  still.  I  went  to  the  flat,  and  she 
came  out  to  dine ;  and,  ah,  yes ;  a  pretty  touch  I  had 
almost  forgotten — she  always  wore  a  tiny  carved 
jade  elephant  hung  on  a  fine  gold  chain  about  her 
neck.  Lends  a  neat  flavor  of  the  artistic,  that  ele- 
phant, what?"  He  smiled  at  the  little  group  whim- 
sically. "Um-m ;  one  night  at  the  Savoy " 

"Ah!  It  was  in  London  then?"  The  ugly  old 
lady's  beautiful  bright  eyes  betrayed  what  she 
thought  of  London.  "You  didn't  tell  us  that." 

"Of  course — in  London,  five  years  ago  last  No- 
vember. As  I  said,  we  were  having  supper  at  the 
Savoy,  and  she  told  me  she  called  the  elephant  Jim. 
I  thought  it  a  crude  joke,  myself ;  but  I  let  it  pass. 


WARNER— WHAT  BUT  A  WAG?  113 

.  .  .  I  let  it  pass.  He  did  me  no  end  of  good  turns 
after  all,  that  elephant:  every  time  I  was  on  the 
verge  of  insanity — blurting  the  thing,  I  mean,  of 
course,  and  so  losing  her  for  a  pal  or  anything — I 
seemed  to  catch  that  old  beast's  green  eye  fixed  on 
me — with  the  leeriest  grin  you  ever  saw.  And  I 
swore  I'd  never  be  as  clumsy  as  he,  no  matter  if  our 
names  were  the  same. 

"Well,  to  get  on  to  the  tragedy" — Warner's 
laugh  rang  out  so  delightfully  clear  that  every  one 
had  to  join  in  it;  even  Sheila,  whose  adorable  but- 
terfly face  had  been  rather  serious  in  its  attention. 
"One  dull  afternoon  I  had  dropped  in  to  tea,  as  I 
did  a  shocking  lot  of  rainy  evenings,  and  found  her 
in  a  blue  frock — um-m — a  delicious  frock  really — 
but  blue  and  in  a  mood  to  match.  After  she'd  made 
us  each  three  very  bad  cups  of  tea — and  she  gen- 
erally made  very  creditable  tea,  too,  for  a  girl — 
I  said :  'Come,  let's  have  it !  which  of  them  is  it — 
who's  bothering  you?' 

"For  a  minute  she  looked  as  though  she'd  like 
to  box  my  ears — you  know  the  kind  of  look,  when 


114        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

you've  just  displayed  a  little  perspicacity  in  some 
one's  else  affairs ;  then  'it's  the  one  who  isn't  bother- 
ing me,'  she  said,  toying  with  the  little  elephant 
and  looking  at  it  in  a  peculiar  sort  of  fashion.  'The 
one  who  hasn't  the  perception  to  bother  me — or 
doesn't  want  to,'  she  added,  in  a  rather  lower  voice. 

"  'But  who ?'  I  began. 

"  'Never  mind' you  know  how  girls  are,  the 

minute  one  begins  to  be  useful;  nothing  women 
hate  so  much  as  usefulness.  A  practical  man  has 
absolutely  no  chance  with  'em.  'I'm  absurd  even 
to  mention  it  to  you.  I  hate  rainy  days — they 
always  make  one  so  absurd.  Come,  let's  try  those 
new  songs ' 

"  'Not  until  you've  told  me ' 

"  'What?  I  don't  intend  to  tell  you  anything,'  she 
declared — so  firmly  that  I  knew  she  would  end  by 
telling  me  everything. 

"  'Oh,  yes,  you  do,'  I  said — with  that  disgusting 
urbanity  which  has  made  all  my  friends  abhor  me, 
more  or  less — 'yes,  you  do.  First  of  all,  what's  his 
name  ?' 


WARNER— WHAT  BUT  A  WAG?  115 

" '] — Jack/  she  stammered.  The  reason  people 
hate  that  urbanity  is  because  it's  a  sort  of  subtle 
hypnotic. 

"  'And  he — ah,  doesn't  bother  you  enough?  Isn't 
sufficiently  courageous  in  his  attitude  of  approach, 
I  mean?' 

"  'Oh !'  she  threw  up  her  hands  with  a  little  ges- 
ture of  abandon.  'He's  sufficiently  courageous,  I 
suppose ;  but  he  doesn't  see.  Oh,  I  don't  know  why 
I  tell  you  all  this,  but  it's  gone  on  so  long  now — 
our  being  just  such  good  pals  and  all  that — it — 
it's  getting  on  my  nerves  frightfully.  And  then 

this  beastly  wet  afternoon' she  laughed  a  bit 

hysterically.  'Yes,  yes;  I'll  tell  you.  You  see  (she 
was  twisting  the  jade  elephant  almost  off  its  chain) 
this  man  I've  known  for  ages — a  year  at  least — 
and  we've  done  everything  together;  I've  always 
kept  my  best  jokes  for  him,  and  my  craziest  hopes 
and  plans,  and — yes,  I'm  afraid  my  worst  moods, 
too.  He's  never  seemed  to  mind  somehow,  no  matter 
how  disagreeable  I've  been,  and — well,  just  lately 
I've  found  that — that  I  can't  go  on  being  pals, 


116        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

that's  all.  I  daren't  even  hint  to  him — I  might  lose 
everything,  you  see;  and  yet — oh,  don't  you  see,  if 
he  did  care — and  was  perhaps  in  exactly  my  position 
— I've  worn  the  mask  so  faithfully.  If  he  did  care 

!  Oh,  Jim  (but  she  was  looking  at  the  clumsy 

little  elephant),  isn't  it  funny?  Isn't  it  funny, 
funny,  funny!' 

"And  'twas  funny,  now,  wasn't  it?  Nothing  so 
frightfully  funny  as  a  real  tragedy.  Now  I — I 
was  just  clown  enough  to  snatch  at  one  little  rav- 
elled end  of  her  story,  and  try  to  match  it  up  with 
a  ragged  corner  of  mine — that,  you  see,  was  where 
the  delicious  joke  of  it  came  in.  Of  course,  I 
couldn't  be  sure,  but — something  said  slyly,  'Why 
it's  you  she  means,  can't  you  see?  It's  you,  you 
blessed  idiot,  and  everything's  coming  out  all  ship- 
shape.' 

"Just  the  same,  one  can't  believe  oneself  just  off- 
hand like  that — it  seems  so  reckless ;  so  I  suggested, 
carelessly,  you  know,  that  she  bring  this  tongue- 
tied  impossibility  to  tea  with  me  next  day.  In  that 
way,  I  told  her,  I  could  see  exactly  how  things 


WARNER— WHAT  BUT  A  WAG?  117 

stood  (and  I  meant  it  more  literally  than  she  knew, 
by  a  good  deal!)  ;  we'd  tea  at  some  Galleries — good 
place,  I  pointed  out,  for  me  to  watch  this  Jack  per- 
son, without  his  knowing  it,  and  then  (by  this  time 
my  ridiculous  tongue  was  fairly  tripping  itself  up 
with  expectation)  she  and  I  would  have  another 
talk,  and  decide  her  next  move. 

"'Capital!'  she  pronounced — a  bit  nervously,  I 
thought  at  the  time.  'If  only  I  can  get  hold  of 
Jack  for  to-morrow ' 

"  'Oh,  well,  if  to-morrow  turns  out  impossible, 
any  day  next  week  will  be  all  right,'  I  said  cheer- 
fully— the  burning  question  being,  of  course,  wheth- 
er she  would  find  it  possible,  any  day,  to  produce 
this  'Jack' — whom  by  the  way  I  was  beginning  to 
care  for  quite  foolishly — as  one  cares  for  oneself, 
don't  you  know!  'Say  you  meet  him  at  the  New, 
at  four ;  have  an  hour  for  the  pictures — which  means 
anything  you  want  to  say  to  him,  while  I  stroll 
quietly  about  after  you — unobserved.  Then  we 
go  to  tea  a  trois,  and — the  game's  complete.  At 
tea '  I  endeavored  to  look  at  her  quite  imper- 


118        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

sonally — 'I  shall  try  to  make  you  understand  just 
what  I  think.  It's  understood?' 

"  'Yes.'  She  drew  a  long  breath.  'Yes,  I  sup- 
pose it  might  as  well  be  to-morrow  as  any  other 
day.  We  can't  go  on  as  we've  been  doing,  that's 
certain.' ' 

"  'No,'  I  said — my  voice  as  leading  man  was  quite 
good  in  this  part,  really!  'No,'  I  said,  'we  can't. 
We  must  er — come  to  some  new  arrangement  to- 
morrow.' 

"But  will  you  believe  me,  when  I  said  good-bye 
to  her,  that  detestable  elephant  actually  leered  at 
me;  and  for  some  unaccountable  reason  I  was  sud- 
denly furious  at  his  being  named  Jim.  A  senseless 
liberty,  I  thought  it.  However,  when  I  was  out- 
doors again,  and  walking  home  through  Regent's 
Park,  I  began  to  think  less  and  less  about  the  ele- 
phant; more  and  more  about  her  peculiar  nervous- 
ness and  agitation.  The  way  she'd  answered  me 
at  first — 'it's  the  one  who  isn't  bothering  me — who 
hasn't  the  perception  to  bother  me,  or  doesn't  want 
to' — and  all  the  time  looking  at  that  little  jade  ele- 


WARNER— WHAT  BUT  A  WAG?  119 

phant,  whose  name  was  Jim!   Not  such  a  bad  ele- 
phant after  all,  I  decided. 

"Then  the  way  she  hesitated  when  I  asked  his 
name:  'J-Jack' why  of  course!  She  was  al- 
ways the  frankest,  most  absurdly  truthful  creature ; 
and  she  had  started  to  say — ah !  It  was  almost  too 
exquisite,  even  the  hint  of  it.  And — 'it's  gone  on  so 
long  now — our  being  just  good  pals'  came  back  to 
me  on  leaping  little  bounds  of  recollection;  and  then 
'oh,  don't  you  see,  if  he  did  care — and  was  perhaps 
in  exactly  my  position' — Hm !  There  was  certainly 
no  one  else  of  whom  she  could  possibly  have  thought 
that;  no  one  else  who  had  been  shown  her  'worst 
moods'  as  well  as  her  'craziest  hopes  and  plans!' 
My  children  (Warner  passed  his  plate  of  pink 
cakes  to  each  one  of  them,  with  an  elaborate  bow, 
while  his  wonderful  smiling  eyes  mocked  their 
gravity),  I  assure  you,  that  was  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  twenty- four  hours  I  have  ever  spent — 
from  the  time  I  left  her,  till  the  time  I  saw  her 
again  next  afternoon.  Those  of  you  who  have 
known  the  emotion  will  remember  its  alternative 


120        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

phases — of  leaving  one  entirely  strangled,  and  again 
curiously  hollow.  I  underwent  them  both,  with 
breathless  rapidity,  all  night  and  the  next  day;  and 
they  left  me  rather  weak-kneed  and  stuttery,  when 
I  arrived  at  the  Galleries  at  precisely  half  past  four. 

"I  strolled  about,  and  watched  the  Americans,  at 
the  same  time  keeping  a  weather  eye  out  for  her — • 
and  Jack!  Awfully  amusing,  you  know,  waiting 
round  for  one's  fate  to  make  up  its  mind!  I  never 
spent  such  a  funny  half  hour  in  my  life ! 

"Then  I  saw  her.  And  she  was  alone.  And,  you 
know,  to  this  day,  for  the  life  of  me,  I  can't  remem- 
ber what  I  thought — much  less  what  I  said  or  did, 
when  I  saw  her — alone — at  five  o'clock!  I  do  re- 
member she  had  on  another  blue  gown,  some  sort 
of  tailored  thing,  with  little  lines  in  it;  and  those 
lines  danced  themselves  up  and  down  and  round 
that  room,  till  somehow  they  caught  up  those  tire- 
some weighted  feet  of  mine,  and  drew  me  over  to 
her. 

"  'Jack  not  here  ?'  I  asked — oh,  with  an  enormous 


WARNER— WHAT  BUT  A  WAG?  121 

carelessness.  My  voice,  once  out,  sounded  so  odd, 
I  just  asked  again  to  make  sure. 

"  'Jack  not  here  ?'  'No — no ;  that  is,  not  yet.  I 
can't  understand,'  she  went  on  hurriedly,  'I  wrote 
him  a  line — rather  an  absurd  line,  I'm  afraid — and 
told  him  if  for  any  reason  he  couldn't  be  here,  to 
send  me  a  wire.  And  he  didn't  send  the  wire,  and  I 
haven't  seen  anything  of  him — up  till  now.' 

"Up  till  now !  I  was  grinning  like  a  fool,  trying 
to  remember  all  I  had  planned  to  say,  and  failing 
utterly  to  say  anything — until  she  took  the  reins 
and  suggested  rather  faintly  that  we  might  as  well 
have  tea. 

"So  we  had  it ;  and  I  gulped  mine,  and  said  quite 
the  most  brilliant  things  I've  ever  said  in  my  life — 
naturally,  since  I  hadn't  an  idea  what  I  was  talking 
about;  and  watched  her  eat  her  muffin  (which  she 
did  with  the  most  frantic  deliberation),  wishing  to 
goodness  she'd  finish,  so  that — well,  one  certainly 
could  not  propose,  with  the  person  eating  a  muffin! 

"At  last  she  did  finish,  and — I  was  cold  from  my 
head  to  my  feet — I  knew  it  was  The  Time!  She 


122        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

had  given  me  undivided  attention  all  during  tea, 
gave  it  me  still.  Her  eyes  had  never  once  wandered 
after  some  one  who  might  be  expected. 

"  'Dear  old  girl' — I  had  leaned  forward  to  where 
I  could  watch  her  eyes  a  bit  better ;  when  suddenly 
I  saw  in  them  something — something  I  had  never 
seen  before,  something  I  have  never  seen  since,  in 
a  woman's  eyes.  It  knocked  the  breath  all  out  of 
me — you  see  (Warner's  laugh  was  the  lightest  thing 
in  the  world)  I  thought  it  was  for  me,  that  look. 
Great  joke! — for  in  another  second  she'd  jumped 
up,  run  round  the  other  side  of  the  table  behind 
me,  and  held  out  both  hands  to — Jack!  Some 
wretched  duffer  I'd  never  heard  of,  he  turned  out 
to  be ;  knew  her  in  Paris  or  somewhere,  where  she'd 
spent  a  lot  of  time.  Seems  that  since  he'd  come  to 
England  people  had  rather  scared  him  off,  by  tales 
of  me!  Perf'ly  ridiculous,  I  told  him;  she  told 
him,  too.  Absolutely  extraordinary!  Why  I — I 
was  just  old  Jim,  you  know — like  the  elephant ;  good 
old  friend — er  pal's  the  word  rather;  good  old  pal, 
and  all  that,  but — well,  so  that's  the  end  (Warner 


WARNER— WHAT  BUT  A  WAG?  123 

stood  up  and  faced  them  all,  more  debonair  than 
ever),  for  they  lived  happily  ever  after." 

"Yes,  but — but  how  did  this  er — eccentric  young 
person  who  preferred  some  one  else  to  you,  effect 
the  er — the  explanation,  I  mean  to  say?"  came  from 
Lady  Trot's  dim  corner  of  the  room.  "Such  ex- 
tremely quick  adjustment,  you  make  it,  dear  Mr. 
Warner!" 

"  'Twas,"  said  Warner  blithely.  "When  I  saw 
him,  and  he  saw  her,  and  she  waited  to  see  what 
he'd  say  when  he  saw  her,  why  I  just  said  it  for 
him,  d'ye  see?  'You've  come  to  get  congratulated, 
now  haven't  you?'  I  accused  him.  And  he  half 
murdered  my  hand,  and  said  that  that  was  about  it." 

"And  then ?"  It  was  Sheila,  the  little  society 

lady,  who  questioned  very  softly.  But  she  did  not 
look  at  Warner. 

"Oh,  then,  having  said  my  piece,  I  went  away 
and  left  him  to  say  his.  And  do  you  know" — 
Warner's  drawl  was  one  of  exceeding  gentleness — 
"I've  always  cared  for — Jack;  like  one  cares  for 
oneself,  you  know,  the  person  who  should  have  been 


124        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

oneself.  And  I'm  sure  she  likes  him ;  better  than  the 
elephant  Such  a  clumsy,  conceited  beast,  an  ele- 
phant." 

He  turned  to  have  a  laugh  with  Hawley,  who — 
with  singular  interest — was  still  standing  by  the 
door;  when  just  then,  in  came  Knollys  Verplanck, 
laden  with  parcels,  and  a  little  air  of  excitement  as 
well.  "I've  brought  you  your  guest,  Sheila,"  he 
announced,  over  the  heads  of  some  superfluous  peo- 
ple. "Her  husband  deserted  her  at  the  door,  to 
attend  to  some  luggage,  so  I  offered  myself  as  escort. 
Their  boat  got  in  a  bit  ahead  of  time,  you  see." 

With  a  little  rush,  Sheila  had  come  forward. 
"Joan,  you  angel,  you  wretch,  for  not  sending  me 
a  wireless — oh,  where  are  these  lights !  Turn  them 
on,  do,  Jim — and  then  I  want  you  to  meet  Mrs. 
Herrington.  She's — oh!"  And  every  one  else  in 
the  room  drew  in  their  breath  involuntarily  also; 
for  the  lady  with  whom  Warner  was  shaking  hands, 
was  dressed  in  a  blue  tailored  gown.  And  on  a  fine 
gold  chain  about  her  neck  she  wore  a  tiny  carved 
jade  elephant. 


WARNER— WHAT  BUT  A  WAG?  125 

"And  is  its  name  still  Jim?"  asked  Wainer, 
gently. 

"Awfully  funny,  Warner,"  said  Knollys  to  Haw- 
ley,  mechanically. 

"Awfully  funny,"  agreed  Hawley — a  bit  uncer- 
tainly. 


VI 

CHALMERS— CLEARLY  A 
CLUBMAN 

"Bur  I  can  tell  you  one  thing,  Claire" — Patsy 
looked  at  her  stepmother  across  a  sea  of  chiffon, 
surging  round  seven  fat  red-lettered  trunks — "never 
do  I  go  abroad  for  six  months  again!  And  if  the 
Angel's  education  perishes  (grimly)  it'll  have  to 
perish,  that's  all;  as  long  as  his  father — as  long  as 
Warren  remains  what  he  is.  Of  course,  I've  always 
known  Warren  was  weak,  but " 

"I've  always  thought  you  were  rather  glad  he 
was  weak,"  ventured  the  stepmother,  her  dainty 
silvered  head  half  lost  in  the  vastness  of  the  biggest 
trunk.  "You  have  always  said " 

"I've  said  I  was  glad  he  wasn't  infallible,  cer- 
tainly," Patsy  cut  in  a  bit  shortly.  "So  I  am.  I 

126 


CHALMERS— A  CLUBMAN     127 

wouldn't  have  Warren  goody-good — like  so  many 
handsome  men! — for  anything.  At  the  same  time, 
you  must  admit  there's  a  difference  between — well, 
ordinary  flirtation,  and  the  sort  of  thing  Warren's 
just  confessed  to;  it  must  be  a  very  deep  interest 
in  a  woman,  that  would  allow  one  to  accept  her 
influence  in  obtaining  a  Cabinet  appointment!  I 
daresay  (carelessly)  you've  seen  the  woman?" 

"Yes."  The  stepmother's  head  was  altogether 
lost  to  view,  this  time.  "Yes ;  I've  seen  her." 

"Warren  didn't  tell  me  her  name,"  Patsy  gazed 
hard  at  the  lace  she  was  folding.  "He  started  to, 
but  I  wouldn't  let  him.  I  told  him" — she  laughed 
lightly — "I  really  took  no  interest.  He  knew  of 
course  I  could  find  out  from  you,  as  you'd  been 
staying  here  in  Washington  ever  since  I  went  away." 

The  stepmother  opened  her  lips,  but  shut  them 
again — rather  tightly.  Then,  "He  lost  no  time  in 
making  a  clean  breast  of  it,"  she  said — as  though 
something  forced  her  to  say  it.  "And  really,  Patsy, 
the  whole  affair — well,  Warren  certainly  did  not 


128        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

take  the  initiative ;  you  know  a  popular  young  Con- 
gressman  " 

"Cannot  afford  to  get  himself  talked  about,"  fin- 
ished Patsy,  rising  to  the  full  dignity  of  her  five 
feet  five.  "There  is  not  the  slightest  use  in  your 
pleading  for  Warren,  Claire,"  she  said  coldly.  "Of 
course  he  knew  I  should  hear  all  about  this  Mrs. — 
Whatever-her-name-is,  the  first  tea-party  I'd  go  to : 
his  telling  me,  the  first  morning  I  got  home,  is  only 
a  part  of  his  other  cowardice — he  couldn't  bear  to 
have  me  hear  from  some  one  else.  One  can  always 
tell  one's  story  more  agreeably  than  the  onlooker, 
you  know.  However" — and  Patsy's  smile  made  the 
little  stepmother  wince — "we're  not  twenty-one  this 
time,  are  we,  dear?  And  it's  not  such  a  serious 
case  as  when  Warren  caught  me  sliding  down  the 
bannisters !" 

"I  suppose  we  all  like  to  slide  down  the  bannisters, 
once  in  a  while?"  The  stepmother  regarded  Patsy 
rather  wistfully.  No,  she  was  no  longer  twenty- 
one,  this  beautiful,  tawny-eyed  little  person.  The 
ten  years  since  then — well,  was  not  Patsy  unpacking 


CHALMERS— A  CLUBMAN     129 

her  trunks? — and  quite  calmly?  The  stepmother 
wished — as  with  unreasonable  ardor — that  they 
were  back  again  at  that  day  when  she  had  packed 
them  up  and  left  Warren.  One  can  do  so  much 
more  with  the  age  that  takes  things  tragically,  she 
reflected. 

But,  as  Patsy  said,  it  was  not  so  serious  now. 
Though  the  bannisters — in  the  present  case — were 
more  slippery.  "I  suppose  we  all  like  to  slide  down 
them  ?"  persisted  the  stepmother.  "When  our  play- 
fellows are  gone — and  there's  nothing  else  to  do?" 

Patsy  kissed  her.  "You're  a  dear,  Claire,"  she 
said  softly.  "It's  very  evident  you've  never  lived 
in  Washington  ten  years,  and  been — Warren's 
wife,"  she  ended  suddenly.  "Oh,  I  know  well 
enough  they  never  let  him  alone,"  she  added,  half 
under  her  breath;  "women  can't,  somehow,  if  a 
man's  good-looking — and  has  influence.  But  there's 
Kent  Chalmers — one  never  hears  of  Kent  like  that; 
and  he's  quite  as  attractive  as  Warren — well,  almost 
— and  if  he  liked  he  could  have  twice  Warren's  in- 
fluence. But  somehow  Kent  just  saunters  along— > 


130        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

nothing  in  particular  happens  to  him,  nothing  in 
particular's  said  about  him.  He's  just  an  agreeable 
person — clearly,  a  clubman  pure  and  simple."  Patsy 
laughed.  "That's  funny,  isn't  it,  dear?  A  clubman 
pure  and  simple !  But"  (the  lovely  tawny  eyes  grew 
serious  again)  "Kent  is;  and  he's  miles  too  good 
for  his  wife — you  know  that,  Claire" — Patsy's  voice 
came  from  the  depths  of  a  huge  cupboard,  where 
she  was  storing  away  very  small  boots — "Farleigh 
Chalmers  is  nowhere  near  good  enough  for  Kent." 

The  stepmother  gazed  at  the  back  of  Patsy's 
head — a  little  strangely.  "No — I  don't  believe  she 
is,"  she  said.  "Patsy,  I  see  the  Angel — I  see  Junior 
coming  up  the  drive — and — no,  my  dear !  He  has 
not  got  his  rubbers  on !  That  child !" 

Patsy  threw  an  arm  around  her.  "Never  mind, 
grannie  dear.  What's  it  matter,  rubbers  or  not, 
when  one's  ten,  and  owns  a  velocipede!  Nothing 
happens  then,  somehow,  does  it?"  She  was  peering 
through  the  twilight  at  a  sturdy  figure  trudging 
up  the  drive.  A  very  tall  figure  followed  it — rather 
slowly.  "It's  Warren  with  him,"  said  Patsy,  stif- 


CHALMERS— A  CLUBMAN     131 

fening;  "no  it  isn't — why  it's  Kent!  He's  come  to 
say  hello — but  how  odd  of  him,  when  all  the  men 
are  at  the  Club — and  Kent's  such  a  very  clubman, 
isn't  he?  I  think  that's  rather  sweet  of  Kent, 
Claire — I'll  run  down  right  away;  he  must  have 
wanted  to  see  me  especially !" 

"Yes,"  said  the  stepmother,  smoothing  Patsy's 
lovely  hair,  "he  must.  I — I'll  just  wait  up  here  for 
Junior,  dear.  His  feet,  you  know " 

Patsy  laughed.  "Of  course.  I'll  send  him  straight 
to  you.  I  shan't  be  long  down  myself,  probably; 
Kent  will  want  to  get  on  to  the  Club,  you  know. 
It's  his  business,  Farleigh  says — the  Club!" 

"Well,  Patsy?" 

"Well,  Kent?" 

"You're  home?" 

"Yes,  I'm  home.  Oh,  yes!" — Patsy's  eyes  were 
following  two  absurd  autumn  leaves,  chasing  each 
other  across  the  wind-swept  lawn.  "I'm  home," 
she  said  again — very  quietly ;  as  her  eyes  came  back 
to  the  comfort  of  the  fire-lit  sitting-room. 


132        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

"Aren't  you  glad,  then?"  asked  Chalmers  gently. 
He  had  sat  down  opposite  her,  by  the  fire.  Patsy 
admitted  again  that  he  was  almost  as  handsome  as 
Warren.  Too  bad  he  never  did  anything,  she  re- 
flected ;  he  was  too  good  for  just  the  Club.  In  fact, 
Patsy  decided  suddenly,  he  was  good  enough  to 
help  her. 

"Am  I  glad  ?"  she  repeated  slowly,  while  her  eyes 
still  measured  him.  "Well,  Kent — you  know  all 
about  it,  of  course — would  you  be?  Oh,  I  suppose 
I'm  a  little  cad  to  answer  you  like  that,"  she  went 
on  swiftly,  "even  though  you  are  Timothy's  friend 
— my  brother's  friend,  and — my  husband's.  Be- 
cause you  are,  perhaps  I  should  say.  But  Kent" — 
she  faced  him  squarely,  with  that  little  boyish  move- 
ment of  the  shoulders  that  Patsy  would  never  lose, 
no  matter  how  many  tens  of  years  went  by — "you're 
my  friend  too — have  been  ever  since  I  came  to 
Washington;  and  that's  a  very  long  time.  You 
know  how  I've  worked  for  Warren,  how  I've  hated 
the  work  I  had  to  do  for  him — because  of  the  wires 
to  be  pulled  and  the  finesse  to  be  made  use  of,  all 


CHALMERS— A  CLUBMAN    133 

the  sort  of  thing  a  Congressman's  wife  has  to  do, 
you  know,  and  that  was  like  driving  nails  into  the 
frankness  Timothy  and  I  had  always  been  used  to. 
But  you  know  I  did  do  that  work,  Kent — for  War- 
ren's sake;  nothing  else  in  the  world!  And  (Patsy 
turned  her  head  away  abruptly)  my  reward  was 
always,  that  I  was  everything  to  Warren." 

"Yes ?"  Chalmers'  voice  came  to  her  like  the 

strong  grip  of  an  understanding  hand. 

"Well, — that's  all.  You  know — Warren  says 
every  one  in  Washington  knows — I've  not  been 
everything  to  him.  It  was  only  necessary  for  me 
to  go  away  for  a  very  little  time  and — Warren 
found  some  one  who  was  really  everything  to  him." 
Patsy  looked  across  at  Warren's  friend,  but  he  was 
shading  his  eyes,  so  that  she  could  not  see  them. 
"Just  put  yourself  in  my  place,  Kent;  suppose  Far- 
leigh— 

"That  is  what  I'm  trying  to  do,  put  myself  in 
your  place,"  Chalmers  interrupted  very  quietly; 
"and  I  admit  it's  not  a  pleasant  place,  Patsy.  Still — 


134        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

Warren  told  you  all  this?  He  came  straight  to 
you,  and  told  you  everything?" 

"Yes.     But " 

"He  might  very  easily  not  have  told  you,"  medi- 
tated Chalmers.  "People — in  such  cases,  people 
don't  often  tell,  you  know." 

"He  knew,  of  course,  I'd  find  out,"  returned 
Patsy  a  bit  scornfully.  "In  this  place  every  one 
knows  everything." 

"Or  invents  it,"  retorted  Chalmers.  "Tell  me 
truthfully,  Patsy,  if  you  had  heard  that  Warren 
was  er — interested  in  some  other  woman,  that  she 
was  using  her  influence"  (Chalmers  hesitated),  "her 
husband's  influence  to  get  him  a  Cabinet  appoint- 
ment— Warren  told  you  that?"  he  added  quickly. 

"Yes,"  said  Patsy,  very  low. 

"Then — truthfully — if  any  one  in  Washington 
had  told  you  this  thing  about  Warren,  tell  me — 
would  you  have  believed  it?  Would  you,  Patsy?" 

There  was  a  moment  of  rather  tense  silence ;  then 
"Warren  sent  you  here  to  plead  for  him,"  Patsy 
broke  out,  tying  her  handkerchief  in  hard  little 


CHALMERS— A  CLUBMAN     135 

knots ;  "and  you're  doing  it — oh,  cleverly !  But  it's 
no  good,  Kent.  Of  course,  I  wouldn't  have  believed 
it;  you  know  that.  But  it's  no  good,  Kent,  War- 
ren  " 

"And  you  don't  credit  Warren  with  the  wit  to 
know  it  too?"  Chalmers  interrupted,  impatiently. 
"I  daresay  there  have  been  stories,  plenty  of  them, 
about  Warren,  as  there  are  about  every  politician, 
that  have  made  your  blood  boil,  Patsy;  and  yet, 
with  all  the  experience  he's  had  with  you,  and  know- 
ing how  much  importance  you'd  attach  to  this  story 
if  it  were  to  come  to  you  in  the  usual  way,  you  think 
that  Warren  told  you  the  truth  himself  because 
he  was  afraid?  My  dear  Patsy,  you  don't  know 
strength  when  it's  shown  you!" 

"My  dear  Kent,"  Patsy's  voice  was  as  cold  as  the 
fall  wind  that  whistled  to  them  through  the  chim- 
ney, "I  know  weakness  when  I've  lived  with  it  for 
ten  years.  Oh,  you  don't  need  to  remind  me" — 
she  went  on  restlessly — "I  know  I've  liked  War- 
ren's weakness,  I've  encouraged  it,  I  suppose,  by 
begging  him  not  to  be  a  saint  and  all  that,  like  his 


136        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

mother  and  all  those  Boston  aunts  had  tried  to  make 
him.  And,  secretly,  I  suppose  too,  I've  rather  glor- 
ied in  being  the  stronger  nature :  I  was  willing  War- 
ren should  have  the  cleverness,  the  brains,  if  I  could 
direct  them.  I  liked  feeling  myself  always  the 
power  behind  the  throne,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing, 
and — well,  you  can't  blame  me  if  I  resent  having 
the  throne  usurped  in  my  absence!" 

"Is  that  what  you  said  to  Warren,  when  he  told 
you?"  Chalmers  had  risen  and  walked  over  to  the 
window.  It  was  very  cold  and  bleak  outside. 

"I  said  to  Warren" —  Patsy's  friend  had  never 
heard  quite  that  note  in  her  voice — oddly  hollow 
it  was,  and  colorless — "that  as  he  had  made  the 
decision,  he  must  abide  by  it.  That  we  were  both 
of  us  too  sensitive  to  make  a  scandal,  and  besides 
there  was  the  Angel — Junior,  I  mean;  I  told  War- 
ren we  should  have  to  go.  on  living  here,  of  course; 
but  that — as  he  had  already  chosen  to  go  his  way, 
I  certainly  should  not  interfere.  I  had  no  idea  of 
subjecting  myself  to  more  confessions  like  this 
morning's." 


CHALMERS— A  CLUBMAN     137 

"Yes!"  Chalmers  wheeled  round  suddenly  and 
came  over  to  her.  "And  I  suppose  that  while  you 
were  saying  it,  you  felt  very  eloquent  and  injured 
and  pleased  with  yourself — that  you  were  able  to 
put  it  to  him  so  clearly,  and  convincingly.  And  you 
congratulated  yourself  for  not  flying  into  a  rage 
and  making  a  scene,  as  so  many  women  would  have 
done.  The  very  fact  that  you  were  talking  down  to 
him  gave  you  a  pleasant  thrill  of  sel f -approbation ! 
— oh,  I  know  you  strong  people,"  he  added  bitterly. 
"You're  the  weakest  people  in  the  world!" 

"Kent!"  She  was  too  astonished  to  be  furious, 
even. 

"Yes;  I  mean  it.  Lord  knows  I've  been  strong 
long  enough  to  know,  haven't  I  ?  But  by  Heavens, 
I'm  beginning  to  fairly  long  to  be  weak !  Here  you 
have  a  man  (he  still  stood  over  her,  sternly)  whom 
you  have,  confessedly,  encouraged  in  his  weakness, 
nay,  taught  his  weakness.  You  teach  him,  too,  to 
depend  on  you  utterly,  you  give  him  all  the  comple- 
ment of  sense  and  practical  judgment  that  his  own 
brains  and  imagination  need;  then  suddenly,  and 


138        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

for  the  first  time,  you  withdraw  all  this — not  heart- 
lessly, for  you  had  Junior's  welfare  to  consider; 
but  unrealizingly.  You  withdraw  all  this  that  War- 
ren has  depended  on  for  years,  and  he  finds  himself 
all  at  once  alone.  A  hand  is  stretched  out — and 
you  know  as  well  as  I  do,  Patsy,  in  Washington  it 
is  not  a  hand,  but  many  hands.  He  takes  one  of 
them — a  little  doubtfully,  yet  somehow  trustingly, 
too;  and — it's  a  very  experienced  hand,  this  that 
he's  caught  hold  of — he  lets  it  drag  him  deeper  and 
deeper,  till  he  very  nearly  drowns.  Then,  all  of  a 
sudden,  he  conies  to  the  top — with  a  little  gasp  of 
realization.  He  shakes  himself  loose — oh,  yes,  he 
did,  weeks  ago! — he  puts  in  a  month  of  the  most 
ghastly  shipwreck  a  man  can  know.  And  at  the 
end  of  that  time  he  has  the  sublime  courage  to  tell 
you!  And  you — what  do  you  do  for  him?" 

"How  do  you  know  all  this  about  Warren?"  de- 
manded Patsy,  irrelevantly.  This  time  it  was  she 
who  had  risen  and  gone  over  to  the  window.  "He 
told  me,  when  I  asked  about  you,  that  he  had 


CHALMERS— A  CLUBMAN    139 

scarcely  seen  you,  since  I'd  been  away.     How  do 
you  know  what  he's  been  through?" 

"I  know,  Patsy — because — I've  been  through 
shipwreck  myself,  though  of  a  different  sort.  Thank 
God! — a  different  sort!  For  I  never  had  to  screw 
my  shrinking  soul  up  to  the  point  of  baring  it  to 
a  strong  person's  knife!"  Chalmers  came  over  to 
her,  and  laid  both  hands  on  her  shoulders.  "Patsy, 
dear  little  girl,  just  remember,  will  you,  that  I  am 
Timothy's  friend,  and  your  friend,  and — Warren's 
friend;  remember  it,  will  you?  For  I've  said  some 
rather  harsh  things  to  you.  But — don't  you  see? 
Maybe  it's  because  I  envy  you — yes"  (as  Patsy's 
eyes  opened  wide  at  him),  "that  may  be  it.  You 
see,  little  pal" — Chalmers'  voice  was  not  quite 
steady — "in  spite  of  everything,  Warren  hasn't 
failed  you!  Or  if  he  has,  it's  been  to  show  himself 
to  you,  nearer  perfect  than  he's  ever  been  before. 
He  was  weak,  yes;  even  cheap,  perhaps — which  is 
much  worse  than  weak — but  through  that  very 
weakness  somehow  he  gained  strength  to  climb  up 
and  stand  beside  you — on  your  level,  for  the  first 


140        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

time  in  his  life.  And  you — oh,  Patsy !  you  pushed 
him  over  the  precipice!  It's  a  way  strong  natures 
have — the  way  of  the  fittest,  I  suppose ;  you  didn't 
see  that  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  was  strong, 
worthy  of  you,  worthy  of  all  you  had  given  him 
before.  You  saw — isn't  it  so,  Patsy? — only  the 
woman?" 

"Yes,"  said  Patsy,  faintly,  "it  is  so."  She  was 
staring  amazedly  at  the  handsome,  passionately 
earnest  face  of  the  clubman.  "But,  Kent — I  don't 
understand — why  do  you  feel  so  keenly  about  all 
this?  You" — she  laughed  a  little  nervously — "it's 
almost  as  though  you  were  pleading  your  own  case. 
But  I'm  sure  such  a  thing  has  never  happened  to 
you,  Kent — it  couldn't  somehow:  you're  er — too 
remote,  too  much  of  a — what  shall  I  say? — not 
dreamer,  exactly " 

"Yes," — the  lines  about  the  clubman's  mouth 
hardened — "I  think  you  have  hit  it  exactly,  Patsy : 
I've  been  too  much  of  a  dreamer!  But" — he  slumped 
down  into  his  chair  again — "let  all  that  go;  it's  of 
no  consequence  anyway,  my  part.  Just  say  you'll 


CHALMERS— A  CLUBMAN     141 

let  Warren  see  that  it's  not  going  to  make  any  differ- 
ence, will  you? — the — the  woman,  I  mean?  You 
will  say  that  much,  Patsy?" 

Patsy  looked  away  from  him,  for  a  long  moment. 
Then  her  hand  met  his  with  the  old  impulsive  frank- 
ness. "Yes,  I  will,  Kent.  If  you  care  enough  for 
Warren  to  come  here  and  plead  for  him,  I  surely 
care  enough  to  forgive  him !  Though,  of  course" — 
she  weakened  a  little — "you're  an  outsider  in  the 
affair :  you  can't  really  see  what  it  means  to " 

"To  forgive?  Perhaps  not, — then  again,  per- 
haps I  do.  You  see " 

"Somebody  had  to  forgive  the  woman,  I  sup- 
pose," it  occurred  to  Patsy  who  was  intent  on  her 
own  train  of  thought;  "or  not  to  forgive  her.  Oh, 
do  you  know  if  I  were  that  woman's  husband,  Kent, 
I  just  couldn't  forgive  her — that's  all!  I  couldn't. 

Why,  think" she  broke  off  suddenly,  looking  up 

at  him  with  a  little  laugh.  "Do  you  know  what 
just  came  into  my  mind,  Kent? — something  per- 
fectly absurd ! — that  what  /  ought  to  do  now,  is  to 
go  beg  the  woman's  husband  to  forgive  her!  Then 


142        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

I'd  have  conquered  my  weakness  as  well  as  Warren 
did  his,  eh?"  Patsy  stopped  abruptly;  for  there 
in  the  door  stood  Warren. 

He  still  wore  his  overcoat,  and  his  splendidly 
built  body  seemed  to  have  hunched  down  into  it — 

apathetically.     "Well ?"  he  said,  coming  over 

and  dropping  into  a  third  chair  by  the  fire,  "I  sup- 
pose you've  talked  it  all  over?" 

The  big  clubman,  his  friend,  got  up  and  began 
slowly  to  draw  on  one  glove.  "Ye-es,"  he  said, — 
and  it  was  with  the  characteristic  Club  drawl — 
"we've  talked  it  all  over,  Warren,  and — it's  all 
right!"  His  ungloved  hand  went  out  to  the  other 
man;  who  stared  at  it — then  up  into  the  face  above 
it — and  finally,  with  a  long  breath,  wrung  it  nearly 
off. 

"Well,  I  must  be  toddling  along  to  the  Club," 
added  Chalmers  lightly;  "the  boys  will  be  missing 
me,  you  know;  yes,  the  boys  will  be  missing  me. 
Good-night,  Patsy,  my  dear"  (she  had  gone  over  to 
the  door  with  him,  and  he  spoke  in  an  undertone) 
"and — and  don't  worry  too  much  about  that — that 


CHALMERS— A  CLUBMAN    143 

other  person,  you  know.   I  daresay  her  hus — I  dare- 
say it's  all  right  with  her,  too.  Good-night,  Warren." 

"It  is  all  right?"  Warren  asked  his  wife.  In  his 
tired  face  a  little  glimmer  of  vitality  showed. 

"All  right!"  echoed  Patsy,  her  eyes  meeting  his 
with  a  something  he  had  never  seen  in  them  before. 
Then,  "Take  this  wet  coat  off  at  once,  Warren 
Adams,"  she  scolded,  "and  those  boots — you're  to 
go  straight  upstairs  and  change  them.  I  declare,  it's 
certainly  a  good  thing  I've  come  home! — you're 
worse  than  Junior,  about  your  rubbers !"  She  was 
tugging  at  his  heavy  coat,  but  he  caught  her  hands 
and  drew  her  about,  to  face  him. 

"Yes,"  he  said — reverently — "it's  a  very  good 
thing  you've  come  home !" 

And  for  some  reason,  Patsy  had  to  snatch  her 
hands  away  and  go  flying  up  the  stairs  ahead  of  him. 

"But  do  you  know,  Claire,"  she  told  the  little 
stepmother,  after  she  had  finished  the  story  of 
Chalmers'  visit  and  his  strange  zeal  on  Warren's 
behalf,  "it's  just  as  I  told  Kent:  I  can't  see  how 


144        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

that  woman's  husband  can  forgive  her!  Why, 
she " 

"You  told  Kent  that?"  asked  the  stepmother, 
oddly. 

"Why,  yes— why  not?" 

"Nothing.  Except  that — that  woman's  husband 
is  Kent.  The  woman,  you  see,  was  Farleigh." 

"Farleigh!"  Patsy  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands.  "Oh,  no — no!  Not  Farleigh,  Claire! — 
why  it  couldn't  have  touched  Kent,  a  thing  like 
that;  it  couldn't,  you  know — and  then  you  see  he 
came  here  to  plead  for  Warren.  Oh,  no,  no,  Claire 
— it  couldn't  have  been  Farleigh!" 

"The  woman  was  Farleigh,"  insisted  the  little 
stepmother,  with  gentle  obstinacy. 

"And  I  told  him  he  couldn't  judge — that  he  was 

too  much  of  an  outsider,  too  remote !"  Patsy 

drew  her  hands  down  from  her  face,  with  a  little  sob. 
"I  said  'you're  too  much  of  a  dreamer' ;  and — oh, 
Claire! — Kent  said  'yes,  you've  hit  it  exactly!  I've 
been  too  much  of  a  dreamer !' '  Patsy  had  dropped 
down  on  one  of  the  big  trunks,  and  was  crying  bit- 


CHALMERS— A  CLUBMAN    145 

terly.  There  is  no  personal  grief  in  the  world  as 
poignant  as  the  pain  one  feels  for  a  creature  who 
bears  his  silently. 

"But,  Patsy — don't  cry  so,  dear" — into  the  older 
woman's  face  had  come  a  wonderful  understanding 
sweetness — "don't  you  see  why  Kent  came  here  and 
talked  to  you  that  way?  Don't  you  see  that  it's 
futile  to  be  sorry  for  a  man  who  loves  as  Kent  can 
love?" 

"You  mean ?"  Patsy  sat  up  and  dried  her 

eyes. 

"I  mean — why  do  you  suppose  that  Kent  came 
here  to-day  to  plead  for  Warren,  Patsy? — to  plead 
for  his  friend?  Never  in  the  world!  He  came  to 
plead  for  the  injury  wrought  his  friend! — for  the 
person  who  wrought  the  injury.  Ah,  my  dear! — 
to  be  loved  as  Kent  loves  Farleigh !"  The  silver- 
haired  woman's  voice  had  sunk  almost  to  a  whisper. 
"It — it's  worth  being  wicked,  just  to  find  it  out. 
It's  sublime!" 

"And  he  went  off  to  the  Club !"— Patsy  was  talk- 


146        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

ing  more  to  herself  than  audibly — "he  said  the  boys 
would  be  missing  him — the  boys,  that's  all !" 

Somewhere  a  bell  rang  musically.  A  child's  voice 
called  "Mumsie!"  And  a  man  came  and  stood  in 
the  door,  waiting — his  eyes  fixed  yearningly  on  the 
tear-stained  face  within. 

Patsy  looked  at  him — looked  at  the  little  step- 
mother; but  as  she  slipped  a  hand  through  the  arm 
of  each  of  them,  it  was  not  of  them  she  was  think- 
ing, but  of  Chalmers — clearly  a  clubman,  pure  and 
simple. 


FIX— PURELY  A  PHILANTHRO- 
PIST 

"DON'T  be  so  lazy,"  said  Kent,  "get  something 
to  do." 

"I  have  something  to  do,"  said  Fix;  "I'm  a  phi- 
lanthropist." 

"That's  what  I  mean; — get  an  occupation." 

"My  dear  boy,"  reproachfully  Pix  looked  at  him, 
"don't  say  unnecessary  things.  You  know  I  was 
educated  for  the  position  of  an  English  gentleman; 
though  my  brains  in  the  first  place  weren't  half  bad. 
Besides,  I  make  a  very  good  philanthropist." 

"So  does  anybody." 

"Who's  rich  enough,"  added  Pix,  lighting  another 
pipe.  "One  can  make  quite  exhaustive  use  of  being 
rich,  d'ye  know,  Chalmers?  You  and  I,  for  in- 

147 


148        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

stance,  shouldn't  have  to  be  sitting  here  on  a  Park 
bench  unless  we  were  rich ;  I  shouldn't  dare  to  be 
smoking  a  pipe,  you  wouldn't  dare  to  be  puffing 
Pall  Malls  at  a  shilling  the  box — you'd  be  opening 
and  re-opening  a  case  of  monogrammed  Egyptians 
you  couldn't  afford,  for  the  sake  of  showing  any 
one  who  happened  to  pass  that  you  could  afford 
them." 

"I  thought  you  said  I  wouldn't  dare  to  be  sitting 
on  this  bench — who'd  pass,  then?  where?" 

"I'm  never  logical,"  Pix  returned,  without  pride ; 
"what  philanthropist  is?  D'ye  know,  Chalmers,  I 
believe  some  day  I'm  going  to  do  something  extraor- 
dinary at  philanthropy." 

"It  isn't  likely,"  Chalmers  discouraged.  His  eyes 
were  fixed  absently  on  the  White  House  across  the 
Park. 

"I  know  it  isn't.  That's  why  I  may  do  it.  In 
fact  I'm  almost  sure " 

"I  wish  I  could  lend  hope  to  the  idea,  but  an  un- 
likely philanthropist — really,  Pix!  Credulity  must 
have  its  limits." 


FIX— A  PHILANTHROPIST    149 

" Almost  sure  I  shall  do  something  spectacu- 
lar at  it,"  finished  Pix,  meditative,  between  puffs. 
"Perhaps  I'll  even  do  a  philanthropic  turn  for  you, 
Kentie,  old  boy,"  benevolently. 

"Wish  I  thought  it,"  muttered  Kent,  over  a  fresh 
Pall  Mall,  "but  that  would  be  almost  too  much  to 
expect,  eh  ?  That  a  philanthropist  should  help  some 
one  who  needed  it?"  He  stared  still  more  fixedly 
at  the  gleam  of  white  beyond  the  trees. 

And  Pix  suddenly  remembered  something  he  had 
heard — something  about  Chalmers'  wife — he  forgot 
just  what  it  was,  but He  screwed  uncomfort- 
ably on  the  end  of  the  bench.  "Shall  we  be  tod- 
dling?" he  said  finally.  "Think  we've  aired  our 
riches  quite  flagrantly  enough,  don't  you?  Then 
there's  to  dine " 

"Where  do  you  do  it?"  Chalmers  rose,  with  as 
much  alacrity  as  could  be  expected — of  a  clubman. 
"Boys'  Boxing  Club,  Home  for  Blond  Babies, 
Ladies'  select  Slumming  Society — or " 

"With  you,"  interposed  Pix,  sauntering  the  more 
aimlessly  for  his  injury;  "being  the  first  time — at 


150        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

your  house,  that  is — I  had  hoped  you  might  remem- 
ber it." 

"My  dear  fellow,  I'm  delighted!"  Chalmers 
didn't  look  it  (he  had  forgotten  how,  perhaps)  but 
he  looked  less  absent.  For  a  moment  he  gazed  at 
Pix  as  though  he  saw  him.  "I  remember  now.  Far- 
leigh  did  say  she'd  asked  you  for  to-night." 

"Yes — said  in  the  note  she'd  make  it  a  parti  a 
trois,  too.  Thought  it  was  no  end  good  of  her.  A 
fellow  gets  so  rotten  sick  of  these  drove  dinners, 
what?  Slum  society  or  high  society,  it's  all  the 
same.  But  I  say,  old  boy,  I — you'll  think  it's  beastly 
cheek,  I  suppose,  but  do  you  mind  telling  me  why 
she  invited  me  ?  I've  seen  her  only  once,  you  know, 
at  the  de  Tregers'  and  I've  known  you  only  at  the 
Club — I — I  just  wondered  what  my  cue  was, 
y'know,"  he  dropped  his  monocle,  rather  uneasily. 

"I'm  sure  I  can't  tell  you."  Kent  Chalmers  gazed 
straight  ahead  of  him,  though  he  spoke  lightly. 
"Farleigh — my  wife — has  no  set  code  of  move — 
that  I  know  of,"  he  added.  "Just  come  and  be  your- 
self—that'll do." 


FIX— A  PHILANTHROPIST   151 

"Thanks,"  replied  Fix  soberly.  Yes,  it  ought  to 
do;  even  for  Farleigh  Chalmers.  Pix  was,  unab- 
breviated, Charles  Clarence  Hope  de  Crecy  Pixen- 
thorpe,  younger  son  of  Somebody  or  Other  in  Mid- 
dleshire.  That  he  was  a  younger  son  is  not  extraor- 
dinary; that  he  was  a  rich  younger  son  is  almost 
an  epigram.  But  on  the  contrary,  it's  the  truth. 
He  had  gone  to  Africa,  and  come  back  that  way; 
and  after  a  girl  (who  had  enough  of  her  own)  had 
added  further  to  his  good  fortune  by  saying  no  to 
him,  he  had  turned  to  philanthropy  and  America. 
"They  go  together/'  he  had  said  placidly.  "One 
can't  be  a  philanthropist  on  a  big  scale — one  can't 
be  anything  abnormal  on  a  big  scale,  except  in 
America." 

So  he  had  gone.  And  terminated  in  Washington. 
Only  four  months  now  since  his  first  donation  to 
the  Needy  Boys'  guild;  yet  Farleigh  Chalmers  was 
inviting  him  to  dinner.  Farleigh  Chalmers'  husband 
wondered  what  there  was  important  about  Pix,  be- 
sides his  being  rich.  He  knew  there  was  something ; 
Farleigh  knew  any  number  of  rich  men  in  the  Cap- 


152        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

ital.  Yes,  there  was  something — and  he  liked  Pix; 
almost,  comparatively,  as  he  loved  Farleigh.  He 
knew,  moreover,  that  Pix  in  spite  of  his  trip  to 
Africa,  knew  nothing  about  the  world — of  Wash- 
ington, Washington,  as  he  wished  Farleigh  did  not 
know  it. 

His  heel  crunched  round  in  the  gravel,  as  they 
left  the  Mall.  "By  the  way,  Pix,  I'll  be  late  to- 
night— I've  to  see  a  man  at  the  Club  about  some- 
thing at  seven,  so — don't  hurry,  old  boy.  Eight 
o'clock's  plenty  of  time.  Farleigh  never  minds  one's 
being  late." 

"Right!"  Pix  clapped  his  shoulder.  "Going  to 
the  Club  now,  eh?  Well,  au  revoir.  I'm  for  the 
Men's  Friendly — they  have  sandwich  and  beer  at 
six.  Gad,  but  a  philanthropist  does  have  to  feed ! — 
er  beg  pardon,  Kent,  really!  Sure  I'll  enjoy  my 
dinner,  you  know,  but — yes,  'bye,  old  chap." 

Having  agreed  to  come  at  eight  o'clock,  Pix  pre- 
sented himself  at  Chalmers'  residence,  twenty  to 
eight  sharp.  Strain  enough  keeping  one's  word,  as 


FIX— A  PHILANTHROPIST   153 

a  philanthropist,  he  reflected  inaudibly  to  the  butler 
who  was  removing  his  coat;  besides,  he  wanted  to 

see "Is  Mrs.  Chalmers  down?"  he  asked  the 

man. 

"Yes,  sir,  Mrs.  Chalmers  is  down,  sir.  Marster's 
just  come  in  'arf  a  minute  ago,  sir,  but  Mrs.  Chal- 
mers is  hin  the  library.  I'll  just  hannounce  you, 
sir." 

"Awfully  good  of  you,"  as  a  (now)  Brother  of 
Humanity,  Fix  felt  called  upon  to  show  fraternity 
with  the  butler  classes.  In  fact  he  followed  Binks 
so  affectionately,  he  almost  trod  on  his  own  name. 

"Yes,  that's  what  I  met  with  as  a  first  disaster, 
Mrs.  Chalmers,"  he  came  into  the  soft-lit  library 
with  a  gentle  melancholy  in  his  appeal;  "you'll  let 
my — er — fellow  man  be  the  only  one  to  call  it, 
though,  won't  you  ?  To  Chalmers  and  the  chaps  at 
the  Club,  I'm  just  Fix." 

"I  shall  be  delighted,  Mr. — Fix,"  Farleigh  gave 
him  her  hand  with  that  smile  of  hers  that  meant — 
well,  there  were  those  who  could  have  told  him. 
"Won't  you  sit  down?  Kent  is  dressing  yet,  I'm 


154,        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

afraid — he  came  in  late,  an  appointment,  I  believe, 
with  some  man."  Farleigh  herself  sat  down  with 
one  of  her  quick,  lithe  movements — Fix  remem- 
bered now,  he  had  noticed  that  night  at  the  de 
Tregers'.  She  was  slim,  svelte,  and  with  slender 
tapering  hands  and  feet.  Her  hair  and  eyebrows 
were  dense  black;  blue  black.  And  she  wore  red. 
Pix  liked  her;  she  reminded  him  of  a  cat.  And  he 
reflected  there  were  excellent  points  about  a  cat; 
people  didn't  appreciate  'em. 

"I  suppose  of  course  you  know  the  British  min- 
ister?" she  began,  watching  him  out  of  her  restless 
eyes,  as  he  sat  down  beside  her.  It  was  spring  and 
the  open  windows  let  in  a  little  breeze  to  ruffle  her 
dark  hair.  "Sir  Maxon-Goring  ?  he  must  be  quite 
an  intimate  of  yours,  no?" 

"No,"  said  Pix,  watching  her  in  return.  "He 
goes  in  for  politics — very  bad  form  on  the  part  of 
an  ambassador.  I've  nothing  to  do  with  him." 

Farleigh  laughed,  and  looked  at  Pix  with  more 
interest.  "You  don't  go  in  for  politics,  then  ?  Why 
not?" 


FIX— A  PHILANTHROPIST    155 

"I'm  too  rich ;  can't  afford  'em."  The  philanthro- 
pist smiled  at  her — that  smile  of  his  that  meant — 
well,  no  one  needed  to  tell  her.  It  meant  that  Pix 
was  there,  behind  the  monocle.  It  meant — a  dis- 
couraging outlook  for  Farleigh.  "Only  poor  men 
should  risk  their  lives  for  the  nation — er — their  idea 
of  the  nation :  rich  men  must  be  left  in  safety — to 
give  away  their  money.  I  suspect  that's  Kent's  idea, 
too?" 

"Oh,  Kent !"  exclaimed  Farleigh,  and  then,  catch- 
ing herself  hastily,  "Kent  isn't  interested  in  politics, 
no,"  she  added  quietly — but  her  long  pointed  fingers 
tapped  her  armchair  at  Fix's  side.  "He  says — 
there's  too  much  intrigue  in  them;  and  he  hates 
intrigue." 

"And  you  don't?"  from  behind  the  monocle,  the 
mild  eyes  gazed  at  her  yet  more  kindly.  Yes,  he 
remembered  now  what  he  had  heard ;  he  knew  what 
it  was,  about  Chalmers'  wife.  And  that  odd  note 
in  Kent's  voice,  the  absent  stare,  the  long  silences 
in  the  clubman's  jolly  talk — "you  like  politics?"  he 


156        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

turned  his  question  to  Farleigh  over,  like  one  show- 
ing the  reverse  side  of  the  same  piece  of  goods. 

"I  like  anything  that  is  complex,"  replied  Far- 
leigh slowly.  "And  I  want  Kent — Mr.  Fix,"  she 
leaned  toward  him  with  a  feline  swiftness,  "will 
you " 

"If  that  is  so," — as  a  philanthropist,  Pix  had 
learned,  he  modestly  confessed  it,  to  avoid  a  request 
of  something  he  knew  he  wasn't  going  to  do — "if 
you  like  anything  that  is  complex,  I  wish  to  good- 
ness you'd  come  down  to  my — hum — which  is  it? 
ah,  yes !  the  Young  Men's  gymnasium — and  untangle 
a  case  I've  got  down  there.  Janitor's  wife,  nice 
lazy  little  woman,"  he  watched  Farleigh's  slender 
foot  swinging  impatiently  while  her  face  turned, 
all  interest,  toward  him.  A  philanthropist,  though 
Kent  had  forgotten  it,  necessarily  sees  a  great  deal 
of  women — "nice  lazy  little  woman,  married  to  a 
husband  who's  so  keen  for  committees  and  being 
third  vice  presidents  of  things,  he  forgets  to  come 
home  on  Sundays.  Fact.  Shuts  up  the — what  did 
I  say?  gymnasium — I  always  forget  if  it's  the  gym- 


FIX— A  PHILANTHROPIST  157 

nasium  or  the  Babies'  Home — and  goes  off  to  lobby 
the  boys;  'stead  of  taking  the  tram  to  Alexandria 
and  his  waiting  wife.  She  belongs  to  a  Browning 
Society,  but  it  doesn't  keep  her  busy,  because  she 
can't  read — farther  than  Poor  Richard's  almanac. 
There  are  no  children,  and  she  complains  there's  no 
husband  either.  Now  what's  to  be  done?  She 
comes  to  me — I'm  the  root  of  all  evil,  gymnasium 
and  otherwise — she  upbraids  me.  She's  upbraided 
me  twice  this  last  week,  once  before  my  valet.  It 
can't  go  on.  But  the  man,  her  husband,  's  a  good 
janitor ;  and  good  janitors  are  scarce  as  honest  phi- 
lanthropists. I  ask  you  what's  to  be  done  ?  I  must 
cure  this  maniac  of  his  politics.  But  how?" 

"Make  him  a  clubman,"  suggested  Farleigh  with 
a  slow  illuminating  smile. 

"He  is  one.  That's  what's  the  matter  with  him. 
He  belongs  to  the  Men's  Literary  and  the  Byron 
Brigade  and  the  Reformed  Republicans — downtown 
branch — and  the  Kindling  Wood  Karpet  Knights 
(that's  in  winter),  and  the  Sons  of  Adam  and — 
well,  she'll  tell  you.  Anyway  he's  a  regular  at- 


158        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

tenclant  and  officer  in  all  of  'em.  Now — Mrs.  Chal- 
mers, how  am  I  to  unite  this  alienated  couple? 
Don't  you  see,  as  a  philanthropist,  I've  got  to  unite 
them?  Come,  now,  you  said  you  liked  complexity, 
unravel  for  me.  How  am  I  to  make  them  see  that 
each  of  them  is  part  wrong?" 

"Always  the  first  step  in  reconciliation?"  queried 
Farleigh,  slipping  deeper  into  her  chair.  "I  should 
make  her  a  suffragette  and  him  an  indigent  tailor — 
they  live  at  home,  don't  they?" 

"On  the  principle  that  a  swapping  of  wrongs 
makes  right  ?  It  would  be  good  humor,  but  not  good 
philanthropy.  Because — you  see,  Mrs.  Chalmers" — 
Pix  dropped  the  monocle  and  looked  quite  steadily 
into  Chalmers'  wife's  eyes — "underneath  their — ah 
— differences,  they  care  for  each  other." 

"How  original!"  Farleigh's  laugh  was  light  like 
the  little  breeze.  "But  you  said,  didn't  you,  they 
were  in  the  middle  class?  Of  course.  But  Mr.  Pix 
— this  is  all  tremendously  interesting — but  I  wanted 
to  ask  you,  I  started  to  ask  you  before,  you  know 
(her  eyes  under  their  blue  black  screen  kept  shift- 


FIX— A  PHILANTHROPIST   159 

ing  toward  the  door) ;  "there's  a  post  open  in  Lon- 
don now — first  Secretary  of  the  Embassy — and  I 
understand  Sir  Maxon-Goring  is  being  asked  by  the 
Administration  to  suggest  some  one.  Some  one 
from  here,  who  has  had  training  in  Washington.  Of 
course  your  being  such  an  intimate  of  Sir  Maxon- 
Goring' s — for  I  know  you  are,  spite  of  your  epi- 
gram— and  such  a  friend  of  Kent's  as  well — well, 
Mr.  Fix,  I  know  the  man  whose  lot  you  want  for 
your  new  Children's  Library.  He's  told  you  he 
won't  sell,  but " 

"Ah,  so  here  you  are,  old  man — at  last !"  Fix  got 
up  leisurely  and  held  his  host  three  fingers  as  Kent 
entered.  "Three  fingers  is  correct,  not?  for  a  phi- 
lanthropist? Four  for  a  hard  drinker?  Well,  you 
have  done  yourself  well !"  He  looked  at  his  watch 
— not  at  Mrs.  Chalmers.  "Ten  after  eight — a  primp 
worthy  of  a  guardsman,  what?" 

Kent,  standing  by  his  wife's  chair,  smiled.  More 
absently  than  ever,  "It  was  that  miserable  man  who 
wanted  to  see  me  at  such  length" — the  big  clubman's 
eyes  wandered ;  from  Fix  to  Farleigh,  from  Farleigh 


160        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

to  Pix,  and  back  again — "Shall  we  go  out,  Far- 
leigh?"  he  asked,  after  a  little  pause. 

"Yes,  Binks  announced  some  time  ago."  In  Far- 
leigh's  voice  was  a  hint  of  rumble ;  like  the  purr  of  a 
cat  that  has  been  disturbed.  "You  will  lead  me?" 
She  laughed  at  Pix,  slipping  her  hand  through  his 
arm. 

"With  pleasure,"  he  said  gravely,  "I  will  lead  you 
both."  And  slipping  his  other  arm  through  Kent's, 
he  took  them  in  to  dinner. 

"Mrs.  Chalmers  has  promised  to  come  down  and 
help  me  with  the  tangle  at  the  ah — gymnasium, 
Kentie,"  Pix  remarked  with  some  satisfaction,  as 
they  sat  in  the  library  again  later,  over  their  coffee. 
"I  say,"  he  leaned  forward  almost  eagerly — for  a 
philanthropist — "there's  going  to  be  an  exhibition — 
er — Field  Day  or  something  or  other  on  Thursday, 
and  Mrs.  Budd  is  sure  to  come  in — um-m,  that's 
their  name,  Budd,"  he  turned  to  Farleigh,  "why  not 
drop  down  for  a  moment,  late,  and  you  can  see  her 
and  Budd  too.  There's  sure  to  be  some  row  on — 


FIX— A  PHILANTHROPIST   161 

anyway  you'd  have  a  splendid  chance  to  diagnose 
and  suggest  a  medicine.  You  will  ?" 

"Why — yes,"  Farleigh  had  no  further  chance  to 
speak  with  Fix  alone.  "Yes,  I'll  come.  Thursday, 
you  say,  at ?" 

"Five."     Fix  beamed. 

"At  five.    Yes ;  it  will  be  amusing,  I'm  sure." 

"Think  so  too.  Suppose  I  may  come  also,  Fix?" 
Kent  was  looking  at  Farleigh's  profile  with  a  look 
that  made  Fix  swallow  the  rest  of  his  coffee  with  a 
gulp. 

"Why,  of  course,  old  man — delighted.  Only  it's 
hardly  in  your  line,  you  know — a  political,  I  mean 
to  say,  a  lobby-maniac;  a  maniac  for  office,  whose 
wife " 

"A  maniac  for  office?"  Kent  laughed  shortly. 
"Well,  no.  That's  rather  at  the  other  end  of  my 
line.  However,  I'll  come.  What,  going?"  as  Fix 
rose. 

"Sorry — but  you  can't  expect  manners  in  a  doer 
of  good.  I'm  to  deliver  an  address  at  the  Rough 
Rider  Lustitude  at  nine-thirty — 'Is  marriage  a  fail- 


162        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

ure  ?'  oh,  my  dears !"  Pix  cast  a  wild  eye  at  them, 
an  eye  that  was  something  else  too,  could  they  have 
seen.  "An  address  from  me — and  it's  their  ladies' 
evening.  Good-night — good-night,"  he  shook  Far- 
leigh's  hand  with  a  despairing  gratitude,  "you  don't 
know  what  this  dinner  has  done  for  me  though,  as 
preparation — ah — I  mean  to  say — ahem !  you  under- 
stand." He  dropped  the  slender  hand  and  fled. 
Dash  it !  he  always  did  make  some  silly  ass  of  him- 
self, just  when  things  were  at  their  most  delicate — 
oh,  hang!  (this  to  Binks,  under  his  breath)  he  sup- 
posed all  philanthropists  were  bunglers. 

"Farleigh" — left  alone,  Kent  came  over  and  put 
his  hands  on  the  slim  shoulders — "Farleigh" — his 
whole  attitude  asked  a  question. 

Farleigh  screened  her  eyes  with  the  blue  black 
lashes,  and  laughed.  "I'm  going  to  a  dance — the 
McCleans  are  stopping  for  me — where  are  you  off 
to,  Kent,  the  Club?" 

"Yes,"  Kent's  hands  fell  to  his  sides.  "The 
Club."  He  strode  away  from  her,  out  of  the  room. 


FIX— A  PHILANTHROPIST   163 

At  the  gymnasium  on  Thursday,  Fix  walked  up 
and  down  between  trapezes,  with  a  little  woman 
whose  short  steps — from  under  a  remarkable  plaid 
silk  gown — doubled  on  themselves  valiantly  to  keep 
pace. 

"And  indeed,  Mister  Fix,"  she  said  plaintively — 
to  all  his  philanthropies  Fix  was  just  Fix — "indeed, 
I  don't  know  what  I'm  to  do  if  Theophilus  don't 
stop  being  so  active.  Forty-six  he  is,  forty-seven 
come  July,  and  no  holdin'  him;  off  again  all  last 
Sunday  with  the  Sons  of  Adam — gettin'  himself 
put  in  as  chancellor  'f  the  order — and  I  made  up  my 
mind  then,  I  was  goin'  to  do  somethin'  desprit. 
But  what  t'  do" — she  flung  out  ten  cotton-gloved 
fingers,  in  an  abandon  of  despondency. 

"Perhaps  this  lady  can  tell  you,"  Fix  said  in  a 
low  voice,  nodding  toward  some  one  slim  and  swift, 
who  was  coming  up  the  stairs  opposite,  into  the 
great  hall.  "I  have  an  idea  she  can,  for — she's  a 
very  clever  lady  indeed.  You  put  the  case  to  her 
frankly,  tell  her  the  whole  trouble,  and  see  if  she 
doesn't  suggest  something.  Ah,  Mrs.  Chalmers! 


164        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

this  is  most  awfully  good  of  you" — he  met  the  slim 
lady  in  black  half  way  across  the  gymnasium.  "The 
er — exhibition's  over,  but — Kent  isn't  with  you?" 
he  broke  off. 

"No.  Kent's  coming  later.  That  is,  he  said  he'd 
meet  me  here  at  five.  I  was  early,  because — Mr. 
Fix,  I  want  to  talk  to  you " 

"Yes,  yes — excuse  me  just  a  moment — I  see  Budd 
beckoning  me  with  a  dumb-bell.  You  won't  mind 
waiting  just  a  second  while  I  see  just  what  he 
wants?  Er — Mrs.  Chalmers,  Mrs.  Budd — you'll 
find  that  vaulting-horse  very  comfortable,  Mrs. 
Chalmers — ah,  back  in  just  one  minute,  you  know!" 
And  Pix  hurried  away. 

The  little  woman  in  the  plaid  dress  and  tan  cotton 
gloves  regarded  the  slender  woman  in  black  cloth 
and  a  Virot  turban.  "Shan't  we  sit  down?"  she 
suggested.  "Myself,  I  don't  think  much  o'  that 
vaultin'  horse,  but  this  movin'  swing's  right  cosy." 

•So  Mrs.  Kent  Chalmers  and  Mrs.  Theophilus 
Budd  sat  down  together  in  the  moving  swing. 

"Your  husband's  the  Mister  Chalmers  who  was 


FIX— A  PHILANTHROPIST   165 

at  one  of  them  foreign  courts,  isn't  he?"  Mrs.  Budd 
began,  a  little  curiously.  "My  friend,  Mrs.  Silas 
Holt — we  belong  to  the  same  Browning  Society  in 
Alexandria — she's  read  me  pieces  out  o'  the  paper 
about  him.  And  once  there  was  his  picture — he  is 
the  handsome  figger  of  a  man  now !  What's  his  job 
now — he's  left  that  foreign  place,  hasn't  he  ?" 

"Yes,"  Farleigh  could  not  be  annoyed  with  the 
little  person — she  was  too  simple,  somehow — but 
she  kept  watching  the  stairs  where  Pix  had  disap- 
peared. Why  didn't  he  come  back?  Surely  he 
didn't  imagine  she  had  taken  him  seriously  about 
untangling  this  funny  little  Mrs.  Budd's  affairs — 
''yes,  he  left  Budapest  a  year  ago,"  telling  it  even 
to  funny  little  Mrs.  Budd  made  Farleigh's  red  lips 
come  close  together,  "he — he  has  no  place  now. 
He's  just  a  clubman." 

"Just  a  clubman?"  almost  shrieked  Mrs.  Budd. 
"Oh,  my  dear,  how  I  feel  for  you !  I  do  indeed — oh. 
Mr.  Pix  was  right  when  he  said  we  might  help  each 
other.  Ain't  he  the  knowin'  one,  Mr.  Pix  ?  And  to 


166        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

think,  your  husband  belongs  to  Clubs,  too !  Oh,  isn't 
it  awful?" 

"Yes,"  said  Farleigh  fervently — she  was  biting 
her  lips — "it  is." 

"An'  stayin'  out  eight  days  out  o'  seven,  an'  run- 
nin'  for  office  in  ten  different  things  at  once,  an' 
wire-pullin'  an'  toadyin'  an' — yes,  though  I  could 
sink  in  my  grave  with  shame  for  sayin'  it — bribin' 
men  as  he  can  make  useful — oh,  Mrs.  Chalmers, 
what  a  life!  That's  what  I  say  to  Theophilus,  on 
the  ice-olated  occasions  when  I  happen  to  see  him. 
What  a  life!" 

Farleigh  was  silent. 

"An'  how  do  you  spend  your  time?"  went  on  the 
little  woman  with  tan  cotton  gloves,  more  cheer- 
fully. "Makin'  the  home  more  attractive,  I  s'pose, 
an'  doin'  everything  you  can,  same  as  I  do,  to  keep 
him  with  you  and  in  some  kind  o'  sane,  contented 
life?  D'ye  keep  a  girl,  Mrs.  Chalmers?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  though  her  voice  was  rather  sharp, 
Farleigh  smiled,  "I  have — yes,  I  have  a  maid." 

"You  must  excuse  me  if   I  was  impertinent," 


FIX— A  PHILANTHROPIST    167 

apologised  Mrs.  Budd  softly;  she  had  a  very  nice 
soft  voice,  Farleigh  couldn't  help  noticing,  "but  I 
thought  maybe  since  your  husband  lost  his  job,  you 
couldn't  afford " 

"Oh,  yes!"  was  it  bitterly  that  Farleigh  said  it? 
Bitterly  to  little  Mrs.  Budd?  "He  has  money,  you 
see,  my  husband.  He — he  doesn't  have  to  have  a 
job." 

"Now  that's  too  bad!"  commiserated  the  other 
woman,  gently  rocking  the  "movin'  swing"  with  her 
foot.  "I  mean  it's  too  bad  when  anybody  doesn't 
have  a  job,  man  or  woman.  I  always  say  my  job's 
makin'  a  home  for  Theophilus — though  he  doesn't 
stay  in  it,"  she  sighed.  "What's  your  job,  Mrs. 
Chalmers  ?" 

Farleigh  stirred  restlessly  in  her  corner  of  the 
swing.  "Why — trying  to  make  my  husband  a  suc- 
cess, I  suppose,"  she  said  unwillingly — after  all, 
what  danger  in  telling  the  truth  to  this  simple  little 
thing?  Why  didn't  Mr.  Fix  come  back,  anyway 
(impatiently) ;  there  would  be  no  time  before  Kent 
came  for  her  to  ask  him 


168        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

"Men  are  queer  creatures,"  reflected  Mrs.  Budd, 
looking  at  her  with  a  certain  thought f ulness ;  "Mr. 
Pix,  he  thought  you  might  help  me  out  with  The- 
ophilus,  but  I  guess  you  can't.  I  guess  you've  got 
just  as  hard  a  job  as  me,  and  no  better  off  t'  cope 
with  it.  Men're  queer  creatures,  Mrs.  Chalmers — 
they've  got  to  go  their  own  way,  'n'  all  we  can  do, 
I  guess,  is  to  sit  by  an'  keep  lovin'  'em.  Isn't  that 
what  you  say?" 

"Er — yes,"  Farleigh  rose  out  of  the  swing  alto- 
gether this  time.  "Yes,  I  suppose  it  is.  Shall  we 
walk  a  little,  Mrs.  Budd?  I  feel  rather — rather 
cramped." 

"You  don't  look  as  though  you'd  ever  felt  a  pain 
in  your  life,"  said  Mrs.  Budd  admiringly,  as  they 
started  down  the  big  hall  hung  with  apparatus,  "but 
then  I  s'pose  you  keep  outdoors  a  lot,  and  don't  let 
yourself  be  ruined  by  this  s'ciety  life.  Mis'  Holt 
was  readin'  me  out  of  last  Sunday's  fashion  supple- 
ment how  a  preacher  had  said  the  word  for  Wash- 
ington s'ciety  was  'hectic,'  and  we  looked  it  up,  at 
the  Tuesday  readin'  of  the  Browning  class,  an'  I 


FIX— A  PHILANTHROPIST    169 

guess  he's  right,  Mrs.  Chalmers.  Washington 
s'ciety's  hectic." 

"They  call  it  so  many  things,"  murmured  Far- 
leigh;  busy  in  avoiding  a  punching-ball,  she  spoke 
again  truthfully,  to  the  little  woman — almost 
friendly,  in  her  nonchalance,  to  the  janitor's  wife. 

"But  I  don't  take  no  stock  in  it,  do  you?"  pursued 
Mrs.  Budd.  "Seems  as  though  it's  just  like  this 
room  full  o'  climbin'  machines — an'  somebody  liable 
to  fall  off  the  trapeze  an'  bust  his  head  open,  any 
time — half  way  up  or  at  the  top ;  y'  can't  tell  nothin' 
about  it.  I'm  glad  you  let  it  alone,  Mrs.  Chalmers. 
This  paper  said  one  woman — it  didn't  give  her  name 
— one  woman  had  gone  so  far's  to — look  out  for 
that  movin'  staircase,  Mis'  Chalmers — they're  awful 
treacherous  :  they  pretend  to  be  takin'  you  up  all  the 
time  an'  then  before  you  know  it,  they  throw  you — 
had  gone  so  far  as  to  make  a  name  for  herself,  in 
the  line  o'  intrigue,"  continued  Mrs.  Budd,  her  soft 
voice  hushed  with  excitement ;  "she  didn't  need 
nothin'  as  far  as  climb  goes,  it  said,  she  just  liked 


170        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

pullin'  the  ropes  because  she  done  it  so  well.  It  said 
they  call  her " 

"Mrs.  Budd,  do  you  see  anything  of  Mr.  Pix?" 
asked  Farleigh,  two  red  spots  glowing  in  her  cheeks. 

"No — but  he'll  be  along  presently.  Don't  fret, 
he  V  your  husband's  probably  met  and  're  having 
a  shindy  with  Budd  down  below.  Men  're  gossipy 
creatures.  I  was  goin'  to  tell  you,  they  call  that 
woman  the  Spanish  Cat — 'cause  she  slides  in  an'  out 
o'  things  so  easy,  and  looks  that  Spanish  kind. 
You're  real  dark  too,  aren't  you,  Mrs.  Chalmers? 
My,  but  your  husband  must  be  proud  of  you !"  the 
little  woman  in  the  plaid  dress  looked  up  wistfully. 
— "Why,  Mis'  Chalmers,  what's  the  matter?" 

For  Mrs.  Chalmers  looked  as  though  she  was 
going  to  cry.  She  also  looked  furiously  angry,  and 
— Mrs.  Budd  gasped — very  beautiful.  "Mrs.  Chal- 
mers, I — I  do  hope  I  haven't  said  nothin'  to  hurt 
your  feelings,"  faltered  the  little  janitor's  wife. 

"No" — with  a  ringing  laugh  Farleigh  dashed  her 
hand  to  her  eyes — "oh,  no,  Mrs.  Budd.  I — shan't 
\ve  sit  down  on  this  wwmoving  staircase  and  wait? — 


FIX— A  PHILANTHROPIST   171 

So  you  don't  think  much  of  the  Spanish  Cat?"  she 
questioned,  as  Mrs.  Budd  sat  down.  "You  think 
she's — er — rather  a  fool?" 

"I  think  they'll  come  a  day  when  she'll  get  caught, 
in  one  o'  these  slides,"  said  Mrs.  Eudd,  delighted  to 
settle  to  a  cosy  chat,  "an'  then  that'll  be  the  end  of 
her.  Just  the  same,  she  must  be  a  real  clever  woman, 
Mrs.  Chalmers,  and  then,  my  dear — as  I  told  Mis' 
Holt — there  must  be  somethin'  the  matter  with  her 
husband.  No  woman  would  take  to  pullin'  wires 
for  a  job,  if  her  husband  was  the  man  he  should  be. 
Prob'ly  he's  some  lazy,  no  account  s'ciety  man, 
this " 

"No,  Mrs.  Budd,"  Farleigh  sat  very  erect,  "I — 
I'm  sure  you're  mistaken,"  she  added  less  hastily, 
"he — her  husband  isn't  no  account,  or — you  see, 
such  a  clever  woman  wouldn't  have  married  him!" 
Yes,  watching  that  smile  of  hers,  Mrs.  Budd  de- 
clared she  was  beautiful. 

"My  dear,  you  can't  tell,"  said  Theophilus'  wife 
sombrely,  "women,  the  cleverest  of  'em,  do  marry 
the  strangest  men! — yes  I  just  bet  you  anything, 


172        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

this  intreegant's  husband  is  some  s'ciety  loafer, 
who's  made  his  wife  so  tired  with  his  foolishness, 
she  just  had " 

"No,  not  a  loafer,"  Mrs.  Chalmers  shook  her  head 
decidedly,  "certainly  he  is  not  a  loafer,  though " 

"Ah,  you  do  know  him  then?"  Mrs.  Budd  fairly 
trembled  with  anxiety.  No  wonder  Mrs.  Chalmers 
had  looked  angry.  "He  'n'  she's  friends  of  yours?" 

"She's  not  a  friend  of  mine,  no,"  said  Farleigh 
slowly.  She  seemed  to  have  forgotten  Mrs.  Budd 
as  a  "funny  little  person,"  Farleigh.  "I  should 
rather  say  she's  my  worst  enemy.  He — well,  I  don't 
know,"  she  ended  rather  abruptly. 

"Do  you  know,  my  dear,"  the  other  woman — the 
woman  with  the  tan  cotton  gloves  leaned  forward 
earnestly,  "I  sh'd  think  there  would  be  a  chance  for 
some  real  mission'ry  work  for  you — and  if  I  called 
'em  names,  I'm  sorry  indeed " 

"It's  all  right,"  said  Farleigh  hastily,  "one's  quite 
apt  to  tell  the  truth  about  people,  before  one  knows 
who  they  are." 

"But  being  such  friends  of  yours,  or  at  least 


FIX— A  PHILANTHROPIST   173 

knowin'  'em  as  you  do,  if  you  could  bring  them  to- 
gether, my  dear,"  went  on  the  simple  little  woman 
looking  earnestly  into  the  beautiful  face,  "if  you 
could  make  that  woman  see  how  she's  wastin'  her- 
self on  the  trapeze  business,  when  she  might  be 
walkin'  along  safe  an'  happy  on  the  ground  with 
him;  an'  if  you  could  make  him  see  that — but  men's 
queer  creatures! — if  you  could  make  him  see  that  if 
he'll  only  stir  his  stumps  a  bit  V  make  himself  more 
interestin'  for  her,  she — don't  you  see,  my  dear? 
Why,  if  you  did  that,  if  you  could  make  'em  see  that 
each  is  part  wrong,  why — it'd  be  the  biggest  job  you 
ever  did  in  your  life !" 

"Yes,"  Farleigh  drew  a  deep  breath,  "it  would. 
The  biggest  job  I  ever  did  in  my  life!  And — isn't 
it  funny,  Mrs.  Budd?  that's  just  what  Mr.  Pix  said 
too :  that  to  make  each  see  that  each  is  part  wrong, 
is  the  first  step  toward  reconciliation." 

"Ah,  but  he's  a  smart  man,  Mr.  Pix,"  said  Mrs. 
Budd  ingenuously.  "But  you'll  try,  my  dear? 
You'll  do  what  you  can  to  bring  these  two  together 
again? — don't  know  why  I  take  s'  much  interest  in 


174        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

'em,"  she  laughed  a  little  abashed,  "but  readin'  that 
woman's  story  in  the  paper  seemed  so  kind  o'  piti- 
ful— you  see,  I  thought  o'  Theophilus  always  play- 
in'  around  with  these  climbin'  machines — and  then 
I  knew,  's  I  say,  there  must  be  something  wrong 
about  the  husband. — You'll  try,  my  dear?" 

"Yes,"  promised  Farleigh  simply,  "I'll  try.  And 
— I'm  glad  you  happened  to  read  the  story  in  the 
paper,  Mrs.  Budd." 

"Funny  now,  wasn't  it?"  The  little  woman 
smiled  happily.  "And  that  I  should  just  happen  to 
tell  it  to  you,  and  you  knew  those  people?  Well," 
she  sighed,  "even  if  we  ain't  come  to  no  conclusion 
about  Theophilus,  maybe  we've  helped  somebody. 
And  here's  Mr.  Fix" — then,  as  another  man  ap- 
peared beside  Fix  on  the  stairs — "my  dear!  is  that 
your  husband  ?"  she  asked  wonderingly. 

"Yes,"  Farleigh  rose  to  meet  them,  "why?" 

"Because  he — my  dear,  I  wouldn't  worry  one 
mite,"  the  little  woman  with  the  tan  gloves  patted 
the  black  sleeve  cut  by  Paquin,  reassuringly,  "don't 
you  fret,  my  dear,  one  minute.  That  man  could  be  a 


FIX— A  PHILANTHROPIST   175 

member  of  the  Sons  of  Adam  an'  the  Kindlin'  Wood 
Knights  an'  any  other  forty-seven  'leven  Clubs  he 
was  a  mind  to.  He's  a  man,  my  dear.  And  (as 
she  saw  him  smile  at  Farleigh,  coming  toward  her) 
he  loves  you.  You're  a  very  lucky  woman." 

"Mrs.  Budd,  this  is  my  husband,  Mr.  Chalmers," 
Farleigh  made  the  introduction  rather  unsteadily. 
"I  want  you  to  know  each  other." 

"Indeed,  and  I'm  proud  to,  Mr.  Chalmers,"  the 
little  woman  beamed ;  while  Farleigh  turned  to  Fix, 
but  not  exclusively.  "Mrs.  Chalmers  an'  I  have  just 
been  having  the  most  interestin'  time,  talkin'  about 
the  Spanish  Cat — oh  I — I  beg  your  pardon" — she 
grew  frantically  pink — "I  forgot  again,  they  was 
friends  of  yours,  and  besides  I  don't  know  her  real 
name.  I " 

"Mrs.  Budd  has  been  telling  me  how  to  manage 
the  Spanish  Cat,  Kent,"  said  Farleigh  very  quietly. 
Fix  stared  at  the  window  as  though  he  meant  to 
jump  out  of  it.  "She  says  that  to — to  manage  her 
would  be  the  biggest  job  of  my  life,  and " 

"Oh,  not  exactly  to  manage  her,  Mrs.  Chalmers," 


176       THE  UNPRETENDERS 

put  in  the  little  woman  uneasily,  "to  bring  her  'n' 
her  husband  together 's  what  I  mean.  You  see," 
she  turned  to  Chalmers,  "I  think  her  husband  must 
be  part  wrong,  too." 

"I  think  he  must,"  said  Kent,  looking  into  Far- 
leigh's  eyes;  "I'm  sure  he  is." 

"But  what  about  the  case  of  Budd?"  broke  in 
Pix,  renouncing  the  window. 

"Oh,  we  didn't  get  's  far  's  him,"  said  Mrs.  Budd 
resignedly;  "we'll  take  up  Theophilus  at  the  next 
meetin',  won't  we,  Mrs.  Chalmers?" 

"We  will,  indeed,"  said  the  very  clever  lady.  And 
I  must  tell  you  that  as  she  said  good-bye  to  her,  she 
kissed  Mrs.  Budd ! 

Kent  turned  to  Pix — Farleigh  had  gone  on  ahead 
of  them,  rather  swiftly,  down  the  stairs.  "Pix,  I — 
you — it's  all  your  affair,"  he  stammered  unevenly, 

iff  )i 

"Tut,  my  dear  boy !"  Pix  waved  aside  the  words, 
though  he  gripped  the  proffered  hand  and  wrung 
it.  "I'm  twice  as  pleased  as  you  are.  I  never  do 


FIX— A  PHILANTHROPIST   177 

things  unselfishly,  you  know — I'm  purely  a  philan- 
thropist. 

"By  the  way,"  added  Fix  carelessly,  watching 
Chalmers  from  behind  his  monocle  as  they  came  out 
into  the  street,  "who's  this  man  who's  been  detain- 
ing you  all  the  time  at  the  Club?" 

"That,"  said  Kent,  stepping  into  the  car  beside 
Farleigh,  "is  a  gentleman  who  has  been  trying  to 
get  my  opinion  on  a  Secretaryship  in  London.  I 
just  told  him,  this  afternoon :  yes." 


VIII 

RICHARD— NO  MORE  THAN  A 
KING 

INTO  the  mysterious  shadows  of  the  grey-cloistered 
chapel,  the  Court  in  all  its  ceremony  was  disappear- 
ing— all  except  the  newest  Maid  of  Honor,  who, 
after  one  glance  back  at  the  sunset,  shook  her  curls 
rebelliously,  and  deliberately  stayed  behind  in  the 
rose-garden ! 

"I  just  won't  go  to  vespers,"  declared  the  Maid 
of  Honor  wilfully;  "and  what's  more" — darting 
after  two  other  stragglers  in  the  procession — "you 
sha'n't  go  either."  She  laid  a  compelling  hand  on 
a  little  old  person  in  rose  and  silver,  and  a  very 
magnificent  person  in  black  velvet  and  pumps.  "It's 
a  perfect  sacrilege  to  pray  any  more  to-day.  Be- 
sides, don't  you  know  we've  got  to  talk?  To  talk 

178 


RICHARD— A  KING  179 

about  him?"  And  she  shook  her  small  fist  threat- 
eningly after  the  departing  monarch. 

"It  is  a  fine  evening,"  conceded  the  little  old  per- 
son weakly;  already  she  had  arranged  her  brocade 
and  laces  against  the  quaint  primness  of  an  ancient 
stone  settle. 

"And — er — no  sense,  really,  in  making  Sunday 
too  shocking  a  misfortune,"  abetted  the  magnificent 
person,  enjoying  the  effect  of  himself  under  the 
glowing  luxuriance  of  a  canopy  of  Marechal  Niels. 
"Fact  is,  the  King " 

"That's  just  it!"  The  Maid  of  Honor  pounced 
upon  the  words,  as  she  pounced  upon  her  favorite 
garden  seat.  "The  King!  Oh" — she  clicked  her 
fan  vehemently — "I  am  so  glad  to  get  you  two  alone 
for  once,  so  that  we  can  talk  and  talk  and  talk 
about  him!" 

"My  dear!"  The  little  old  person's  hands  went 
up.  "I'm  sure  no  one  ever  found  that  much  to  say 
about  a  king.  There's  really  nothing  much  to  say, 
is  there?"  She  glanced  half  fearfully  toward  the 
beautiful  old  chapel  door. 


180       THE  UNPRETENDERS 

"Exactly  what  I  mean!"  announced  the  Maid  of 
Honor  triumphantly.  "Mind  you,  I  don't  agree  to 
it  for  all  kings — perhaps  the  less  important  ones 
aren't  so  bad — but  this  one!  Why,  he's  a  mere 
bundle  of  robes,  a  mannequin  to  hang  things  on: 
satins,  epigrams,  anything.  A  sort  of  peg  for  the 
traditions  of  our  ancestors.  Oh!"  In  the  small 
restless  face  showed  the  exasperation  of  all  youth. 
"What  difference  does  it  make  how  many  millions 
of  subjects  he  has?  He's  always  the  same.  He 
always  will  be  the  same,  I  suppose :  just  a  monarch, 
a  handsome  effigy,  no  more  than  a  king!" 

"Nor  less,"  appended  his  Fool  impartially. 
(Nowadays,  they  call  them  the  "king's  best  friend" : 
it  amounts  to  the  same  thing.)  "He  does  the  best 
he  can  with  the  predicament,  you  know.  Rather 
beastly  situation  to  find  oneself  in,  too,  now  isn't  it? 
Fancy,  just  fancy  for  yourself" — he  looked  toward 
the  Maid  of  Honor's  profile  propitiatingly — "being 
suddenly  obliged  to  become  king — or,  queen,  that 
is,  of  Dumdedum;  Emperor  of  Ladada,  Lord  High 
Protector  of  Thingumbob,  and  all  the  rest  of  it. 


RICHARD— A  KING  181 

You  wouldn't  like  it,  you  know.    Nobody  would." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know."  For  some  reason  the  Maid 
of  Honor  was  blushing. 

"Nobody  would,  unless  it  were  one's  butler.  It's 
being  such  a  temptation  to  anarchists ;  and  no  well- 
brought-up  person  likes  to  be  a  temptation — or  ad- 
mits that  he  likes  it." 

"And  you  confess  he  is  marvelously  handsome," 
urged  the  little  old  Lady-in- Waiting  slyly,  "you  ac- 
knowledge yourself,  Ermyntrude,  that  he  fills  his 
position  with  distinction ;  never  looks  scared,  I  mean, 
and  that's  so  hard  for  a  king.  You  said  just  now, 
you  know — you  called  him " 

"I  called  him  a  handsome  effigy!"  The  Maid  of 
Honor  rose  to  her  feet  sharply.  "And  that's  quite 
all  he  is.  Oh,  I  don't  ask  that  he  shall  do  anything 
so  wonderful,"  she  defended,  catching  up  his  pet 
spaniel,  and  pulling  its  ears  with  a  mixture  of  af- 
fection and  intense  impatience,  "I  don't  ask  that 
he  shall  ride  to  wars,  or  build  huge  palaces,  or 
squander  fortunes  over  pageantry.  I  ask  simply  that 
he  show  some  signs  of  humanness,  that  he  be  a  man, 


182        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

any  sort  of  a  man,  anything  rather  than  a  dummy ! 
Why,  if  Ja — if  the  Prince  were  to  grow  like 
him  .  .  .!" 

"But" — the  Fool  began  to  look  worried.  He 
rubbed  his  pumps  together  till  they  creaked. 

"Other  kings  manage  it,"  went  on  the  Maid  of 
Honor  accusingly;  "they  have  their  personalities, 
their  special  diets,  their  favorite  spa;  they  invent  a 
cravat  or  a  new  kind  of  soup,  and  it's  all  very  well. 
But  he — he  doesn't  do  one  thing  that's  different. 
It's  the  Queen  who  reigns,  you  know.  It's  she" 
(was  it  a  note  of  bitterness  in  the  little  Maid's 
voice?)  "who  has  been  straining  every  nerve  to 
promote  this  marriage  of  the  Crown  Prince  with 
that  Franconia  girl.  But  he — he's  such  a  piece  of 
passivity,  he  won't  even  say  yes  or  no  to  the  idea. 
All  he  has  energy  to  do,  this  whole  month  since  I 
came  to  court,  is  to  avoid  quarrelling.  Any  lazy 
person  can  do  that." 

"But,  my  dear " 

"Oh" — the  Maid  of  Honor  heeded  nothing  but 
her  own  rising  indignation — "if  he'd  only  get  some 


RICHARD— A  KING  183 

spite  in  him,  and  quarrel  like  the — like  everything — 
why,  it  would  be  splendid !  He'd  be  sublime !  And 
if  he'd  be  wicked — you  know  what  I  mean,  real, 
antique,  Francis  the  First,  Henry  the  Eighth  wicked 
— oh,  then  he'd  immortalize  himself.  When  one's 
genuinely  wicked,  one's  never  forgotten,  eh?"  She 
turned  confidently  to  the  Fool. 

"Um-m.  Not  if  one  has  a  clever  press-agent: 
biographer,  that  is  to  say.  However,"  and,  for  a 
Fool,  his  voice  grew  quite  gentle,  "I  am  afraid  that 
Richard  will  never  be  so  very  wicked.  You  know 
he — he  has  loved  a  woman." 

The  Maid  of  Honor  laughed. 

"He  has  loved  a  woman,"  emphasized  the  Fool, 
"and  for  a  man,  especially  for  a  king,  that  is  a  very 
rare  experience." 

"It  was  before  Ermyntrude  was  born,"  reminded 
the  little  old  Lady-in- Waiting,  softly;  and  her 
pretty,  faded  eyes  lost  themselves  in  the  sunset. 
"Before  even  your  mother  came  to  be  Mistress  of 
the  Robes  to  his  mother,  my  dear,"  she  drew  the 
girl  down  beside  her  on  the  ancient  settle,  "when  I 


184        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

myself  was  a  slip  of  a  girl  in  the  Palace  at  Camelot, 
and  the  young  Prince  Richard  barely  through  with 
his  examinations.  He  used  to  talk  to  me — ah,  yes" 
(she  sighed  a  little  sadly)  "then  he  was  not  so  quiet; 
he  used  to  talk.  And  one  day — it  was  in  the  sum- 
mer, and  yes,  in  this  very  rose-garden — we  had 
come  up  from  Camelot  for  some  tournament — one 
day  he  told  me  he  was  in  love.  'Her  name's  Rose- 
mary, Guarda/  he  said,  'and  her  father  is  just  a  pro- 
fessor at  the  University'  (the  little  Maid  winced). 
'Oh,  Guarda,  I  am  glad  I  don't  have  to  succeed — 
think,  Guarda!  I  couldn't  marry  Rosemary !'  And" 
(the  sun  or  something  had  got  into  the  little  old 
lady's  eyes,  so  that  she  had  to  put  up  her  hand  to 
shield  them)  "just  six  months  after  that — one 
month  before  he  was  going  to  marry  Rosemary — 
the  Crown  Prince  died,  and  then  his  father,  the  old 
King;  and  now" — the  fragile  old  hand  fell  back  into 
the  Lady  Guarda's  lap,  with  a  limp  little  gesture  of 
finality — "Richard  is  married  to  a  Princess.  Per- 
haps that  is  why  he  is  no  more  than  a  King !" 
"Yes" — the  Maid  of  Honor's  voice  sounded 


RICHARD— A  KING  185 

strangely  subdued — "perhaps  that  is  why.  See,  they 
are  coming  out  from  vespers — shall  we  walk  as  far 
as  the  gates,  Lady  Guarda?" 

And  as  the  two  swept  their  soft  trains  down  the 
fragrant  allee,  out  of  the  dim  grey  cloisters  came 
a  monarch  and  his  court — a  splendid  panoply  of 
vivid  color,  mellowed  by  the  dying  sun,  which  cast 
its  tenderness  over  all  the  vast  old  garden,  but  lin- 
gered on  the  handsome  impassive  features  of  the 
Man  Who  Came  First — a  handsome  effigy. 

"A  mere  bundle  of  robes ?"  wondered  his 

Fool — who  knew  him  best. 

"I  know  all  that  you  say."  The  King  rose  a 
trifle  wearily,  regarding  his  councillors  with  that 
mixture  of  gentleness  and  pity  which  seemed  to 
shut  him  from  them,  from  every  one,  like  a  beauti- 
ful stiff  hedge.  "Our  relation  with  Franconia  is, 
truly,  very  delicate :  the  two  most  prominent  world 
powers  .  .  .  and  then  the  peculiar  situation  in 
the  Colonies  .  .  .  yes,  for  the  best  interests  of  the 
State,  I  grant  you,  even,  His  Royal  Highness 


186        THE  UNPRETEXDERS 

should  make  this  alliance.  But,  milords,"  his  smile 
upon  them  was  grave  though  very  sweet,  "there  are 
things  greater  than  the  State." 

"That  is  a  terrible  thing  for  your  Majesty  to 
say,"  pronounced  his  minister  severely. 

"All  true  things  are  terrible — especially  beautiful 
true  things.  Milords,  I  will  announce  my  decision 
at  the  State  banquet  to-morrow  night.  It  is,  as  you 
know,  His  Royal  Highness'  birthday  to-morrow — 
his  eighteenth  birthday.  Yes,  yes,  you  all  are  right, 
he  is  getting  to  be  a  man.  A  man! — or  rather  a 
king.  Between  the  two  words,  milords,  a  tremen- 
dous gulf  is  fixed.  But  I  will  detain  you  no  longer, 
gentlemen;  I  desire  an  hour  or  two  alone  before 
retiring.  Sir  Estes,  pray  send  my  Fool  into  the 
garden — er,  not  now,  you  understand,  but  in  half  an 
hour.  Yes,  thank  you,  that  will  be  quite  soon 
enough."  And  the  royal  mannequin  watched  his 
courtiers  disappear  into  the  Palace,  always  with 
that  gentle,  commiserating  smile  upon  his  lips. 

Then,  with  a  brief  sigh  that  might  have  meant 
almost  anything,  or  nothing,  he  sank  down  on  to  the 


RICHARD— A  KING  187 

old  garden  seat,  and  lit  his  strange  long  pipe.  The 
garden  was  very  still,  in  the  pale  mystery  of  the 
moonlight,  very  still,  and  very  empty.  The  King 
from  his  shadowy  corner  gazed  past  its  loveliness 
at  the  great  palace  unbelievingly :  it  was  not  a  real 
Palace,  there  was  no  real  Court  inside.  Only  the 
exquisite  soft  arches  of  the  cloister  were  real,  and 
the  long  sweep  of  the  old  steps,  down  which  he  had 
stolen  to  meet — he  drew  in  his  breath  sharply. 
Yes,  the  steps,  and  the  grand  towering  oaks,  and 
the  beckoning  green  vistas,  luring  one  into  their 
ever-vanishing  embrace,  promising  one  at  the  end 
surely  some  sweet,  half- forgotten  memory  of  child- 
hood. Why,  one's  first  kite  had  flirted  away  down 
that  leafy  winding  lane ;  and,  yes !  at  the  end  of  this, 
that  wretched  pony  had  tumbled  one's  enraged  man- 
hood off  its  seat — at  the  resentful  age  of  four. 
Then  that  other :  it  was  there  as  far  as  the  bend  in 
the  trees  that  one's  mother  had  walked  with  one, 
that  day  of  departure  for  the  University.  A  Queen 
she  was,  to  be  sure,  but — marvelously ! — one's  won- 
derful mother  as  well.  And  "I'm  so  glad  you  don't 


188       THE  UNPRETENDERS 

have  to  succeed,  Dick,"  she  had  whispered  against 
his  cheek,  starting  guiltily  at  her  own  words :  "I — 
I  want  you  to  be  just  a  man,  you  know.  A  man, 
with  all  a  man's  pleasures,  and  burdens,  and  hob- 
bies, and — and  loves,  dear.  You  don't  have  to  be 
superb,  thank  God !  you  can  be  just  a  commonplace 
man.  Ah,  Dick,  that's  the  greatest  privilege  in  the 
world!" 

The  King  flung  his  pipe  away  abruptly.  She  was 
dead  now.  And  he "She  was  right,"  he  mut- 
tered harshly,  beginning  to  stride  up  and  down, 
"that's  the  greatest  privilege  in  the  world.  But 


"You  are  alone  out  here,  my  dear?"  The  voice 
that  came  to  him  from  a  balcony  above  was  as 
coldly  sweet  as  the  moon's  own  rays. 

"I  am  alone,"  he  answered  mechanically. 

A  stately  figure  trailed  down  the  winding  stair 
and  joined  him,  directing  his  steps  to  that  corner 
of  the  garden  that  was  farthest  from  the  Palace. 
"Some  one  has  told  me  that  our  son — that  John  will 
soon  come  to  you  with  a  most  unreasonable  request. 


RICHARD— A  KING  189 

I  beg  of  you,  Richard,  do  not  grant  it.  It  has  to  do 
with  the  announcement  to  be  made  to-morrow 
night" 

"The  announcement?    Why  I " 

"You  understand  me,  I  am  sure."  The  cold  voice 
lowered  cautiously.  "It  is  imperative  that  nothing 
shall  be  done  to  mar  my  plan  for  adjusting  our  rela- 
tions with  Franconia;  I  am  only  more  and  more 
regretful  that  you  have  kept  the  matter  of  John's 
alliance  with  the  Princess  Royal  pending  for  so 
long  a  time." 

"I  have  not  yet  consented " 

"You  have  not  consented  to  discuss  the  question 
formally  with  the  Franconian  ambassador" — in  the 
smooth  voice  an  element  of  irritation  was  rising — 
"nor  to  have  him  present  at  the  banquet  to-morrow 
night;  when,  very  firmly,  you  will  announce  your 
desire,  your  earnest  desire  that  the  alliance  should 
take  place.  And  listen  to  me,  Richard — you  re- 
member that  this  is  the  last  resort:  you  have  ad- 
mitted everything  else  has  been  tried,  and  to  no 
purpose,  in  this  situation  with  Franconia.  Now  it 


190        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

lies  with  you.  Hitherto,  you  have  refused  to  dis- 
cuss the  subject  of  John's  betrothal,  even  with  the 
family,  or  your  ministers.  In  this  I  do  not  say  you 
have  been  wrong.  It  has  doubtless  been  as  well  to 
keep  the  matter  quiet  until  we  could  learn  that  the 
suggestion  would  be  welcomed  by  Franconia.  Now 
that  we  are  assured  of  that,  however — well,  you  will 
make  the  informal  announcement  to-morrow  night. 
You  know,  Richard,  where  John  is  concerned,  you 
are  apt  to  be  over-lenient.  And  some  one  told 
me " 

"I  understand  you,  Alix."  He  understood,  too, 
that  when  she  said  over-lenient,  she  meant  weak ;  no 
one  appreciated  the  fact  that  the  Queen  reigned, 
more  intelligently  than  did  the  King.  "I  could 
wish,  however,  that  'some  one'  was  not  always  tell- 
ing you  things  about  John.  It  looks — you  will  par- 
don me — unpleasantly  like  spying." 

"One  cannot  sacrifice  the  State  to  looks,"  returned 
the  Queen  coolly.  "If  you  will  insist  on  forgetting 
your  duty  to  your  people,  Richard,  somebody  must 
remember  it  for  you.  You  are  not  just  a  plain,  ordi- 


RICHARD— A  KING  191 

nary  person,  you  know."  And  she  swept  back  up 
the  stair  again,  and  into  the  Palace. 

"Oh,  God,  if  I  only  were!"  groaned  the  King, 
turning  on  his  heel  with  a  sudden  fierceness  very 
foreign  to  a  mere  mannequin.  Then  he  saw  his 
Fool  standing  there. 

"A  fine  night,"  observed  the  King  formally. 

"It  would  be  if  it  were  raining,  your  Majesty," 
replied  the  Fool. 

"If  it  were  raining?" 

"Yes,  your  Majesty.  When  it  rains,  so  many 
things  can  happen.  One  slips,  one  slides,  one  tum- 
bles into  a  puddle :  there  are  all  sorts  of  possibilities. 
While  a  fine  night — is  just  a  fine  night,  that's  all. 
Most  distressingly  ordinary.  Before  I  was  a 
fool " 

"What  were  you  ?"  interrupted  the  King. 

"A  very  wise  man,  my  liege.  You  see,  I  have 
changed  but  little;  except  that  when  I  was  a  wise 
man,  I  did  not  enjoy  knowing  myself  to  be  a  fool ; 
whereas  now  it  gives  me  the  subtlest  sort  of  pleas- 
ure, knowing  how  very  wise  I  really  am.  All  a 


192        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

matter  of  placing  oneself,  Sire ;  a  matter  of  light  and 
shade;  and  if  one  has  the  true  artistic  eye " 

"Do  you  think  that  one  is  then  competent  to  place 
others  ?"  asked  the  King  abruptly. 

The  Fool  stopped  twirling  his  bauble  (his  bouton- 
niere,  I  mean,  of  course).  "One  is  never  compe- 
tent," he  said  slowly,  "one  is  only  less  stupid  than 
before.  One's  sense  of  values  is  in  better  equilib- 
rium. With  your  Majesty,  for  instance " 

"Yes?"    The  King  bent  toward  him  eagerly. 

"The  King  can  do  no  wrong,"  began  his  Fool 
pompously.  "Which  is  only  another  way  of  saying 
that  the  King  is  left  no  chance  to  do  anything  but 
right.  He  is  not  an  ordinary  person." 

"He  is,"  contradicted  the  King  calmly.  "At  least 
he  is  going  to  be.  Your  next  King,  my  dear  Fool, 
is  to  be  just  an  ordinary  person !" 

Limply  the  Fool  leaned  against  a  balustrade. 
"Your  Majesty  is  too  exotic  in  his  fancies — quite 
too  exotic,"  he  protested  feebly.  "I  beg  your  Maj- 
esty to  allow  me  to  retire :  I  am  so  truly  a  fool  that 
a  joke  quite  unnerves  me.  Besides,  His  Royal  High- 


RICHARD— A  KING  193 

ness  is  coming — see,  yonder  he  is — an  idea,  smiling 
at  a  makeshift!  I  beg  leave  to  take  the  makeshift 
within  the  Palace,  Sire." 

"So  then,  Father!"— one  felt  with  a  thrill  the 
onslaught  of  Youth — "you  have  been  railing  at  the 
world,  with  the  help  of  that  soberest  man  at  Court. 
Fie  upon  you !  And  you,  sir,  off  with  you !  I  will 
not  have  my  father's  Fool  turn  him  into  an  old 
sobersides!"  The  young  Prince  ran  lightly  down 
the  steps  from  the  terrace  and  came  laughing  to  the 
King's  side. 

"I  suppose  I  should  have  said  'your  Majesty* 
before  him,"  he  apologized,  locking  arms  with  his 
father,  as  the  Fool  vanished  within;  "Mother  told 
me  only  this  morning  that  I  did  not  sufficiently  re- 
alize the  respect  due  you  as  a  monarch.  But  how 
can  I?  Why,  we've  always  been  such  pals,  eh, 
Father  ?  And  if  ever  I'm  a  king  and  have  children 
— well,  I'll  try  to  make  them  forget  I'm  a  king, 
that's  all." 

"Have  I  made  you  forget  it?"  asked  the  King 
wistfully.  "Do  I  seem  to  you  just — just  your 


194        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

father,  Jack — you  know  what  I  mean,  just  an  ordi- 
nary man?" 

"You  seem" — his  son  regarded  him  half  puzzled 
— "an  ordinary  man  ?  Well,  no,  Father.  Of  course, 
you're  keen  for  sport,  as  keen  as  I  am;  and  then  in 
your  heart  you've  that  passion  for  the  flute — ah, 
yes,  you  have !  You  needn't  shake  your  head :  you 
know  you'd  pawn  the  Palace  if  only  you  could  play 
the  flute.  But  something's  always  hindering  you. 
I  suppose  something  always  hinders  a  king,  Father  ?" 
The  King's  own  wistfulness  had  crept  into  the 
young  voice. 

The  King  cleared  his  throat.  "I'm  afraid  it 
does,"  he  acknowledged,  looking  away  from  the 
boy,  and  up  at  the  balcony — so  cold  and  white  in  the 
moon's  radiance.  "I — but  come,  let's  walk.  You 
were  saying " 

"There's  something  I've  got  to  ask  you."  The 
Prince  walked  a  little  faster.  "You  must  know 
what  it  is,  Father — they've  all  talked  so  much  about 
it.  And  last  night  at  the  Masque  Ermyntrude  whis- 
pered to  me  that  it  was  no  use  at  all,  asking  you — 


RICHARD— A  KING  195 

that  Mother  had  arranged  everything,  and  you 
would  never  go  against  Mother.  But,  somehow, 
because  you  aren't  just  an  ordinary  man,  because 
you've  always  been  different  to  me  from  the  rest  of 
the  world,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  ask  you.  You 
see,  it's — it's  about  this  marriage."  For  the  mo- 
ment the  young  Prince  looked  a  good  deal  more  than 
eighteen.  "I  haven't  said  anything  up  till  now — 
I've  always  known,  of  course,  that  being  a  king 
made  a  difference,  that  it  meant  one  could  never  do 
as  one  liked,  you  know ;  so  when  Mother  and  all  of 
them  first  talked  about  the  Princess — all  along,  in 
fact — I  didn't  say  anything.  Oh,  I  understood" — 
and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  the  King  saw  bitter- 
ness in  his  son's  face — "an  alliance  with  Franconia 
is  essential;  my  tutor's  told  me  of  it  many  times: 
he's  prepared  me  very  cleverly.  But,  Father,  I  don't 
want  to  make  an  alliance.  I  want  to  marry  a 
woman." 

The  King  stopped  walking.  They  were  just  at 
the  foot  of  the  steps  where  he  had  used  to  meet — 
"I  see,"  he  said  gently. 


196        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

"I've  tried  to  go  through  with  it" — the  boy's 
voice  grew  more  and  more  unsteady — "since  Mother 
told  me  how  much  it  would  mean  to  all  the  millions 
of  our  people  I've  nerved  myself  up  to  it;  and  I 
told  myself  again  and  again  that,  as  Ermyntrude 
says,  a  man  who's  got  to  be  a  king  has  no  right  to 
any  feelings.  That  he  must  be  just  a  dummy,  to 
support  the  prestige  and  ambitions  of  his  subjects. 
His  subjects!  The  Prince's  laugh  was  not  a  pleas- 
ant thing  to  hear.  Oh,  I  wonder  that  you  don't  see 
the  screaming  satire  of  it,  Father — even  though  you 
are  a  king." 

The  King  looked  at  him  strangely.  "I  was  not 
always  a  king,"  he  said ;  and  again  his  glance  strayed 
down  the  dim  green  vistas  with  their  whimsical 
shadows.  At  the  end  of  each  vista  it  was  black  now. 
"When  I  was  your  age,  Jack,  I  had  no  idea  that  I 
ever  would  be  King.  But — but  I  want  to  ask  you 
something:  if  the  country  were  to  go  to  war,  and  a 
good  man  was  needed  to  lead  the  troops,  would  you 
go  ?  Understand  me :  even  though  there  was  every 
probability  of  your  being  killed,  though  you  had  one 


RICHARD— A  KING  197 

chance  in  a  thousand,  or  say  no  chance  at  all — and 
— you  were  also  just  about  to  marry — a  woman. 
Would  you  go?" 

"I" — the  boy  drew  a  long  breath.  "But  of  course 
I'd  go.  You  know  that,  Father." 

"Then — the  country  is  at  war ;  for  a  great  nation, 
the  subtlest,  deadliest  kind  of  war,  John :  with  inter- 
national opinion.  It  does  need  a  leader.  The  King, 
you  see" — the  even  voice  never  wavered — "is  just  a 
dummy — no  more  than  the  King.  And  I'm  very 
much  afraid  that  the  leader  will  have  to  be  killed, 
at  least  all  but  the  mere  blood  and  bones  and  breath 
of  him:  and  those  amount  to  so  little,  don't  they? 
Yes,  yes;  they  amount  to  so  little.  Well!  so  this 
some  one  must  sacrifice  himself.  We've  tried  every- 
thing, we've  come  dangerously  near  showing  our- 
selves abject,  in  this  adjustment  with  Franconia: 
at  least,  so  the  queen  tells  me.  There  is  left  just 
this  way  out,  the  alliance,  I  mean,  and  .  .  .  some 
one  must  sacrifice  himself.  Who  do  you  think  will 
do  it,  John?"  Under  the  cold  stone  balcony,  the 
King  stretched  his  hand  toward  the  Crown  Prince. 


198        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

Did  he  congratulate  himself  that  for  once  he  was 
not  being  over-lenient? 

"Very  well,  your  Majesty."  There  was  no  doubt 
as  to  its  being  the  Crown  Prince  who  spoke.  At  the 
same  time  his  hand  as  it  met  the  King's  was  the 
hand  of  a  subject.  "I  will  do  it.  You  will,  I  sup- 
pose, make  the  formal  announcement  to  the  Court 
to-morrow  night?  I  will  be  prepared,  sir.  Good- 
night." 

"Good-night."  An  infinite  sadness  was  in  the 
King's  eyes  as  once  more  he  turned  about  to  pace 
up  and  down,  alone. 

The  alliance,  then,  was  assured.  The  Queen  and 
all  her  ministers — far  more  than  his — would  be 
satisfied.  He  supposed  it  was  a  very  satisfactory 
piece  of  business.  But — he  wondered  suddenly — 
would  the  next  King  be  just  an  ordinary  person? 

"Jack."  Some  one  was  calling  softly.  "Jack, 
are  you  there?"  The  moon  had  gone  down;  it  was 
very  dark  in  the  vast  old  garden.  But  through  the 
blackness  one  could  see  a  dainty  figure,  like  an 
adorable  phantom  image,  poised  uncertainly,  just 


RICHARD— A  KING  199 

at  the  top  of  the  steps.  "It's  so  dark,  I  can't  see 
you,  Jack" — the  little  laugh  held  a  note  of  the 
piteous.  "And  I  daresay  it's  the  last  time  I  shall  see 
you,  isn't  it?  For  of  course  he  wouldn't  listen  to 
you.  He — he's  such  a  real  king,  isn't  he?"  For  a 
moment  longer  she  stood  there,  the  beseeching,  fairy 
thing;  then  with  a  quick  sob  of  disappointment,  she 
fled. 

But  the  half -concealed  impatience  of  her  last 
speech  had  told  the  King  that  it  was  the  little  Maid 
of  Honor,  Ermyntrude.  Ah — he  remembered :  she 
had  come  to  Court  not  so  long  ago,  just  a  month — 
after  her  father  died.  Her  father  was — why  should 
it  seem  suddenly  so  significant  ? — a  professor  at  the 
University;  a  very  learned  man.  Her  mother,  a 
Princess,  had  broken  rank  to  marry  him.  Women 
did  those  things. 

A  professor  at  the  University!  And  "It's  the 
last  time  I  shall  see  you,  isn't  it?"  Who  was  it 
standing  there  at  the  top  of  the  steps?  Standing 
there  for  the  last  time,  piteously  brave,  with  that 
heartbreaking  little  laugh  in  her  voice.  The  King 


200        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

dashed  his  hand  across  his  eyes.     "Rosemary!"  he 
called  yearningly;  and  fled  after  her  up  the  steps. 

The  great  banquet  hall  was  hushed.  The  min- 
strels had  put  away  their  songs,  and  the  Court  sat 
quiet.  Only  the  Fool  played  with  his  gardenia :  he 
whispered  to  some  one  that  nothing  gave  him  con- 
fidence like  appearing  trivial. 

"Milords,  Ladies  of  the  Court,  and  our  distin- 
guished guests" — as  the  King  raised  his  handsome 
face  to  the  colonial  Princes,  one  saw  that  it  was 
very  pale — as  pale  as  that  of  the  Crown  Prince,  who 
sat  at  his  right. 

"The  King  is  but  just  beginning  to  be  alive  to  the 
privileges  of  his  position.  You  know  how  in  olden 
times,  and  in  these  modern  reckless  days  as  well, 
monarchs  have  sacrificed  thousands — lives,  ducats, 
principalities  even,  for  the  sake  of  some  passing 
fancy — some  hobby,  perhaps,  that  wanted  gratify- 
ing. And  no  one  has  dared  to  say  them  nay.  Mi- 
lords, I  have  been  up  to  this  time  a  very  lenient  sov- 
ereign" (the  Queen  was  tapping  her  slipper  nerv- 


RICHARD— A  KING  201 

ously)  ;  "I  have  been  content  to  be  just  an  ordinary 
King!"  He  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  the 
company  whimsically.  "Emperors  have  given  away 
continents ;  great  lords  have  sold  their  every  slave — 
all  for  the  sake  of  a  whim.  And  so  now,  milords, 
I  intend  to  gratify  a  little  notion  of  my  own.  It  has 
long  been  the  custom  to  betroth  the  Crown  Prince  on 
His  Highness'  birthday.  His  Highness  grows  to 
manhood,  he  attains  his  majority,  and  voila!  One 
picks  him  a  bride!  Quite  suitable;  quite  suitable." 
(The  Queen  was  breathing  more  freely.  The 
Crown  Prince  sat  with  his  young  face  half  shaded. 
The  whole  Court  held  its  breath  with  attention; 
particularly  the  Fool,  who  was  watching  his  master 
with  a  new  concentration.) 

"Very  good.  The  King  has  taken  the  fancy — oh, 
a  very  flighty  fancy  no  doubt,  milords — to  present 
the  Crown  Prince  and  his  affections  to  er — some  one 
quite  unexpected — some  one  whom  the  King  shall 
choose  on  the  ah — spur  of  the  moment,  you  under- 
stand. It  lends  more  excitement  to  a  game,  to  cast 
the  die  quite  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  eh?"  (By 


202        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

this  time  the  Queen  was  beside  herself;  while  the 
Prince  had  half  risen,  in  his  indignation. ) 

"So — let  me  see — I  assure  you,  milords" — and 
the  King's  voice  had  never  been  so  lightly  gay,  his 
face  so  gravely  sweet — "I  assure  you  this  moment 
is  worth  all  the  monotony  of  Kingship,  yes,  though 
that  monotony  had  lasted  a  thousand  dreary  years ! 
— this  moment  on  which  one  stakes  his  all :  his  des- 
tiny, his  country,  his  lands  beyond  the  seas — for  the 
sake  of  one  glorious,  mad  whim!  I  bestow  the 
hand  of  Prince  John  upon  which  one?  Let  us  say 
the  littlest — she  who  sits  yonder  in  the  corner — 
what,  not  crying?  There'll  be  plenty  of  time  for 
that  when  you're  Queen,  my  dear.  Come  bring  her 
forward,  your  Highness,  and  let  all  men  see  whom 
the  King  has  chosen  to  carry  out  his  one  wild  mad- 
ness. Your  name  is ?  Ermyntrude!  Milords, 

I  pledge  you  Ermyntrude,  your  future  Queen,  the 
daughter  of  a  Princess,  and"  (for  the  first  time  the 
King's  voice  faltered)  "of  a  professor  at  the  Uni- 
versity. Ermyntrude !" 


RICHARD— A  KING  203 

"And  so  he's  no  more  than  a  King?"  The  Fool 
was  asking  the  Maid  of  Honor  a  moment  later — 
and  for  a  Fool,  his  voice  was  beautiful. 

The  Maid  of  Honor's  lovely,  vivid  little  face  was 
like  a  drenched  spring  flower — all  the  more  radiant 
for  its  tears.  "No — no  more  than  a  King?  Oh!" 
she  caught  the  velvet  sleeve  impetuously.  "Oh,  Fool, 
you're  his  best  friend — you're  his  Fool,  so  you  know 
him  best — could  any  one,  I  ask  you  could  any  one 
be  more  than  the  King!" 

But  why,  asks  the  Child  (the  Child  we  all  are, 
when  it  comes  to  a  story),  why  was  the  King  so 
wonderful?  Was  it  because  he  was  one  of  our 
Plain  People? 

And  the  story-teller  turns  back  over  the  pages 
wistfully — on  each  of  them,  for  her,  is  written  a 
little  of  the  great  tragedy  and  great  sublimity  of 
Life.  "It  was  because  he  couldn't  be  one"  (she  says 
finally),  "because  he  couldn't  be  a  Plain  Person;  but 
had  nevertheless  the  supreme  courage  to  demand 


204        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

for  his  son  what  he  could  never  have  for  himself. 
And  I  think,  in  the  power  to  make  this  subtlest  of 
sacrifices,  every  man  is  King;  and  every  King  that 
divinely  privileged  creature:  a  Plain  Man." 


IX 

LUCIA— A  MERE  WIFE 

"I'VE  come,"  said  Lucia,  "for  a  very  long  visit." 

Something  in  the  weary  little  sigh  with  which  she 
threw  herself  down  on  the  sofa,  made  her  mother 
look  up,  arrested. 

"You — you  don't  mean  that  you  aren't  happy,  my 
dear?"  she  asked  uncertainly. 

Lucia  gave  a  faint  smile.  "At  least  I'm  not  un- 
happy. I  wish"  (with  sudden  vehemence)  "I  were. 
I  wish—" 

Mrs.  Loring  took  an  apprehensive  step  towards 
her. 

"There,  mother,  it's  all  right.  I'm  a  little  tired, 
and — and  unstrung  with  seeing  you  again,  that's  all. 
It's  all  right." 

"But  my  dear,  I'm  afraid  that  is  just  what  it 
isn't.  I 

205 


206        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

"Yes,  really!  It's  only  that  I — I've  always  been 
a  little  over-balanced,  you  know,  if  such  a  state  were 
possible.  And  it  is,"  tensely,  "outside  of  mathe- 
matics." 

Mrs.  Loring — whose  intimacy  with  mathematics 
was  fleeting — looked  at  her  daughter  anxiously. 
"Just  what  do  you  mean,  Lucy  ?  There,  my  dear — 
throw  your  coat  off.  And  your  hat — so!  Jacque- 
line will  unpack  you  while  we  have  our  tea.  Tell 
me  what  you  mean — over-balanced?"  She  inclined 
her  well-dressed  head  vaguely. 

"I  mean,"  said  Lucia,  pressing  back  against  a  nest 
of  cushions,  "just  that.  All  my  life  I've  seen  things 
evenly,  mother :  in  parallel  rows,  that  always  tallied. 
When  you  sent  me  to  finishing-school,  I  hated  it; 
but  I  put  up  with  the  two  years'  boredom  without 
complaint,  because  I  realized  it  was  making  valuable 
friends  for  me.  When  I  took  up  drawing,  later,  I 
did  it  because  I  knew  that  on  the  other  side  of  the 
hard  work  and  cruel  discouragement  in  getting 
started,  would  lie  a  hobby — and  a  profitable  one — 


LUCIA— A  MERE  WIFE        207 

in  which  I  might  bury  myself  at  any  time,  and  with 
absorbing  interest.  And  when  I  married " 

"Yes  ?"    Mrs.  Loring  sat  forward  a  little. 

"You  thought  I  never  would  marry,  didn't  you, 
mother  darling?"  with  a  brief  laugh.  "I  was  afraid 
of  marriage,  rather.  But  when  John  came,  and  I 
thought  I  cared  enough  and — well,  it  seemed  to  me 
that  if  I  went  into  the  thing  with  no  illusions,  I 
couldn't  lose  any.  That  if  I  got  married,  just  be- 
cause I  wanted  to, — if  I  expected  nothing,  at  least 
I  couldn't  get  less." 

"Lucy,"  put  in  her  mother  uncomfortably,  "you 
think  too  much.  You  always  did.  Cream,  my 
dear?" 

"Please.  I  said,  when  I  came  in,  I'd  come  for  a 
very  long  visit." 

"Isn't  John  Gwynne  a  good  husband?"  demanded 
Mrs.  Loring.  "Is  there  anything ?" 

"Oh,  nothing — nothing.  Our  life  is  as  even  as 
the  lines  in  my  account-book.  That,"  said  Lucia  in 
a  low  voice,  "is  what  I  simply  can't  stand;  what  I 
had  to  get  away  from." 


208        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

"But — but,  my  dear,  it  doesn't  sound  very  serious. 
Really,  you  know,  it  doesn't!" 

"I  know  it  doesn't — perhaps  it  isn't.  Only  to 
me" — Lucia's  fingers  closed  dangerously  over  the 
fragile  cup-handle — "it  was  growing  unbearable !  I 
had  to  get  away." 

"Yes,  yes,  dear.  And  you  were  right  to  come 
to  me.  I  was  delighted  when  your  wire  arrived — ' 
quite  delighted,"  said  Mrs.  Loring  quickly.  "But 
what  about  Tommy?" 

"Tommy's  away  at  school,"  said  his  mother,  sip- 
ping her  tea  with  a  pretense  of  tranquillity.  "We  de- 
cided to  send  him  to  military  school  this  year,  you 
know,  as  he's  nine.  He  left  yesterday.  That  gave 
me  my  opportunity  to  come  to  you.  Oh,  mother,  I 
snatched  at  it!" 

"Yes,  dear — yes,"  Mrs.  Loring  leaned  over  to  pat 
her  hand.  She  had  certainly  not  known  Lucy  was 
so  nervous!  "And  I'll  let  the  Granvilles  and  Ada 
Barker  and  the  Temple  girls  know  you're  here,  and 
we'll  have  a  gay  little  visit,"  she  added  cheerfully. 
"The  longer  the  better,  Lucy!" 


LUCIA— A  MERE  WIFE       209 

"Dear  mother!"  murmured  Lucia.  "Though  I 
would  rather  not  do  a  lot  of  social  things — I  really 
would,  mother.  I'm — 1  believe  I'm  rather  tired. 
And  John  said" — she  checked  herself  swiftly. 

"Yes?    What  did  John  say?" 

"A  stupid  married  woman's  habit  I've  fallen  into ! 
What  he  said  was  'do  get  rested.'  What  he  should 
have  said " 

"Lucia,"  interrupted  her  mother,  "I  was  married 
to  your  father  only  four  years,  but  'what  he  should 
have  said'  never  happened.  I  wouldn't  let  it  hap- 
pen." 

"He  should  have  said  'I  shall  miss  you,' "  mur- 
mured Lucia  stubbornly.  "That's  one  of  the  things, 
mother :  I'm  taken — and  let  go — so  for  granted !" 

Mrs.  Loring  looked  at  her  judiciously.  "You're 
a  very  pretty  woman,"  said  she.  "Even  excepting 
your  hair,  you'd  be  striking.  And"  (running  her 
left  hand  through  its  ripples)  "it  seems  to  me  your 
hair's  blacker  than  ever.  Doesn't  John  think  so?" 

"John — is  occupied  more  with  Consolidated  Iron 
than  he  is  with  my  hair.  Nonsense,  mother !  Why 


210         THE  UNPRETENDERS 

be  tragic  about  it?  John  is  kind,  I'm  contented. 
Why"  (lightly)  "should  I  go  into  heroics  because 
our  romance  is  not  so  gossamer  but  that  I  can  pull 
it  to  pieces  and  put  it  together  again?  I'm  thirty- 
two.  Yet" — she  added,  laying  down  her  cup — "I 
seem  as  greedy  for  romance  as  a  debutante  in  the 
first  season.  I,"  reminiscently,  "was  rather  a  nice 
debutante,  eh,  mummy?" 

"You  were  delicious !"  said  Mrs.  Loring  with  en- 
thusiasm. "Ambrose  Fayerweather  was  saying  only 
yesterday" 

"Does  Mr.  Fayerweather  still  call  here?" 

Mrs.  Loring's  smooth  cheeks  flushed.  "He  is  a 
very  old  friend,"  said  she,  busy  with  the  cream  jug. 
"And  he  says  the  girls  these  last  few  years 
can't" 

"Hold  a  candle  to  those  a  dozen  years  ago,"  fin- 
ished Lucia. 

"Why,  yes !    How  did  you  know  ?" 

"He's  said  it  to  me — and  other  old  galants — every 
time  I've  seen  him  in  the  last  decade.  Well, 
mummy!  I'm  going  up  to  lie  down  for  a  little.  I 


LUCIA— A  MERE  WIFE        211 

hope,"  wistfully,  "I  haven't  blued  you  up,  dear? 
I'm  afraid  I'm  rather" 

"You're  in  need  of  rest!"  replied  Mrs.  Loring 
briskly.  "Run  along  and  get  it,  my  dear.  John 
said  the  right  thing,  after  all!" 

She  smiled  brightly  at  her  daughter;  but  when 
Lucia  had  reached  the  landing,  stood  gazing  after 
her.  "She  thinks  too  much,"  said  her  mother  with 
a  sigh ;  "it's  a  bad  habit  for  a  woman." 

Lucia,  upstairs,  on  a  couch  luxurious  with  pillows, 
was  still  thinking;  that  is,  always  the  same  thing. 
Why  would  the  figures  always  balance  each  other, 
she  wondered  wearily?  Life  was  one  long  sum 
in  algebra — or  subtraction:  the  signs  changed,  the 
quantities  cancelled,  and — X  was  zero.  Everything 
seemed  to  be  known;  so  distinct  and  matter-of-fact. 
When  she  married  John  Gwynne,  she  had  loved  him 
— passionately ;  but  also  reasoningly.  She  had  taken 
into  consideration  that  the  passion  would  dim,  but 
that  a  certain  comfortable  comradeship  would  take 
its  place.  The  passion  had  dimmed;  the  comrade- 
ship had  taken  its  place.  And  the  illusions  which 


212         THE  UNPRETENDERS 

Lucia  had  not  possessed  had  remained  unattacked. 
What  was  there  then  to  quarrel  with?  Her  house, 
from  which  she  had  anticipated  as  much  satisfaction 
as  care,  had  given  her  the  two  in  equal  proportion. 
Her  child,  who  she  had  known  would  thrill  and 
agonize  her  alike,  had  done  both,  with  impartial  in- 
tensity. Her  art,  which  she  had  been  willing  to 
abandon  in  exchange  for  certain  other  delights,  had 
been  indeed  compensated  for  by  those  delights;  it 
had  been  a  fair  exchange  and  no  more.  No  more, 
for  that  would  have  been  to  spoil  the  law ;  to  dig  un- 
evennesses  in  the  groove — which,  for  Lucia,  seemed 
eternally  straight. 

"Oh !"  She  sat  up  and  flung  off  the  soft  blanket 
that  covered  her.  Was  there  any  way,  was  there 
any  trick  or  painful  art,  with  which  to  break  the 
relentlessness  of  pleasure  paid  for?  Of  happiness 
counter-checked  ?  Perhaps  her  mother  was  right — if 

she  didn't  think  so  much .    But  she  had  to  think. 

It  was  all  the  expression  she  had  of  a  nature  that 
had  never  been  able  to  escape  from  itself,  for  an 
unconscious  minute.  Heavens !  Lucia  beat  the  pil- 


LUCIA— A  MERE  WIFE       213 

lows  and  sank  down  again.  "If  this  keeps  on,  I'll 
go  quite  mad."  She  had  the  wit  to  know  she  was 
half  mad,  anyhow — and  always  had  been.  It  was 
perhaps  the  one  thing  that  kept  her  sane.  Analysts 
are  harassed  creatures.  John  Gwynne,  who  ate 
meat  and  potatoes  three  times  a  day,  and  loved  a 
good  vaudeville  show,  did  not  know  of  their  exist- 
ence. 

John  Gwynne  was  at  that  moment  in  a  shop,  leav- 
ing an  order  for  new  decorations  for  Lucia's  rooms. 

"You'll  have  to  push  it  through  in  a  hurry,"  he 
said  anxiously.  "Mrs.  Gwynne  said  she  didn't  know 
when  she'd  be  back,  and  that  means  any  time.  I 
want  something  in  lilac.  Lilac's  her  color." 

The  attentive  clerk  showed  two  samples  in  pale 
mauve.  "We  have  the  chintz  to  match  these,  Mr. 
Gwynne.  If  I  might  suggest,  I  should  think  the 
unconventional  design " 

"Sure,  the  unconventional's  the  thing  for  Mrs. 
Gwynne!  You've  served  her  for  ten  years,  th, 
Gregg?" 

"Yes,  sir — "  the  suave  clerk's  face  broke  into  an 


214        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

almost  natural  smile — "I  was  here  when  you  brought 
her  in  to  select  her  bridal  furnishings,  ten  years 
ago." 

"Sure!"  said  John  Gwynne  again,  more  slowly. 
"Ten  years  ago!  George,  but  time  goes  by,  don't 
it,  Gregg?"  He  was  staring  out  the  window  at  the 
motors  tearing  up  and  down  outside. 

"Well!"  with  a  start,  "the  unconventional  it  is, 
— paper,  hangings,  and  the  whole  business — and 
look  here,  Gregg,  rush  this  for  me,  will  you  ?  Push 
it  right  along." 

"We  certainly  will,  Mr.  Gwynne,"  the  clerkly 
manner  was  not  quite  restored  again.  Heartiness 
struggled  with  it ;  and — "excuse  me,  sir,"  said  Gregg 
hurriedly,  "but  do  you  know  I  think  this  is  the  very 
design  Mrs.  Gwynne  chose  when  you  were  mar- 
ried— wistaria,  with  the  pale  pink  rosebuds  in  the 
border — I'm  almost  positive  it  is.  It's  a  piece  we 
didn't  carry  for  a  number  of  years,  and  then" 

"Why,  sure — sure!"  said  Gwynne,  gazing  at  it. 
"The  very  thing!  And  then  my  sister,  two  years 
later,  went  and  put  on  blue — to  surprise  Mrs. 


LUCIA— A  MERE  WIFE        215 

Gwynne — while  we  were  in  Europe.  And  I  think  it 
did  surprise  her  some!"  he  remembered  grimly. 

The  clerk  gave  a  feeble  smile.  "Yes,  sir — 'blue 
with  a  silver  stripe — I  remember,  sir!" 

"I  should  think  you  would!  I  told  her  to  come 
down  and  have  it  changed,  but  Tommy — our  little 
boy — had  the  measles  just  then,  and  afterward  I 
got  hurt  in  that  hunting  accident,  and  then  we  went 
to  the  country — and  blessed  if  there's  ever  been 
a  time  since  when  she's  had  so  much  as  a  chance  to 
think  about  it!  That's  why  now — well,  see  you 
push  it  through,  Gregg." 

"Indeed  yes,  Mr.  Gwynne!  Good-day,  Mr. 
Gwynne." 

"Good-day." 

"Beats  me,"  added  Gwynne  to  himself  outside, 
"why  these  clerk- fellows  can't  say  things  as  they 
come :  'indeed  yes' — why  the  Dickens  should  a  thing 
be  turned  hind-side  to,  when  you  can  say  it  straight 
out?" 

It  was  a  point  he  and  Lucia  had  not  infrequently 
discussed — in  other  denominations.  Gwynne,  going 


216        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

home  to  an  empty  house,  felt  he  would  willingly 
have  dropped  his  side,  if  Lucia  had  been  there  to 
carry  hers. 

"She  looked  tired,"  he  thought,  sitting  alone  by 
the  library  fire  after  dinner.  "I  hope  her  mother 
makes  her  rest.  She  looked  regularly  fagged." 

He  spent  the  rest  of  the  evening  writing  her  a 
letter;  and  Tommy.  In  the  morning  he  sent  Mrs. 
Loring  a  telegram.  "How's  Lucia?"  it  said.  Lucia 
had  been  gone  twenty-four  hours. 

"And  you  say  you're  taken  for  granted!"  tri- 
umphed her  mother.  "You  think  he's  more  inter- 
ested in  Consolidated  Iron  ?  Stuff,  my  dear !  John 
Gwynne's  forty.  For  a  man  of  forty  to  follow  his 
wife  up  with  telegrams,  the  very  day  after — > — " 

"He  might  have  sent  it  to  me,"  said  Lucia,  ungra- 
ciously. 

"Oh,  well!"  Mrs.  Loring  tossed  her  handsome 
head.  "If  you're  determined  to  be  difficile !" 

Lucia,  who  was  pretending  to  eat  a  strip  of  bacon, 
asked,  "Did  my  drawing-ink  come  ?  I  ordered  some 


LUCIA— A  MERE  WIFE       217 

sent  down  from  town,  before  I  left — and  a  lot  of 
Bristol-board." 

"It  came,"  said  Mrs.  Loring,  looking  at  her  un- 
easily. "Lucia,  whatever  are  you " 

"I  am  going  to  draw,"  said  Lucia,  with  a  deep 
breath.  "Ever  since  I  was  married,  I've  never  had 
time:  first  there  was  Tommy,  and  then  the  trip 
abroad,  and  then  Tommy's  measles,  and  then  John's 
accident,  and  then  the  new  house  in  the  country,  and 
— I'm  going  to  draw,  mother !  For  days  and  days, 
and  blissful  weeks — I'm  going  to  draw!" 

Her  cheeks  were  vivid,  her  eyes  afire. 

"Oh !"  gasped  Mrs.  Loring,  looking  at  her.  "You 
— you're  going  to  draw.  For — weeks!" 

"Yes,  mother!  And  you  can  tell  Ada  Barker, 
and  the  Temple  girls,  and  whoever  else  comes,  that 
their  fascinations  are  nothing  compared  with  black- 
and-white.  And  if  John  sends  telegrams  asking 
'How's  Lucia?'  tell  him  'She's  drawing!'  Do  you 
hear?  Tell  him  'She's  drawing!'5 

And  snatching  up  her  precious  parcel  that  a  ser- 
vant had  brought,  with  an  excited  little  laugh,  Lucia 


218        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

fairly  flew  upstairs.  Her  mother,  left  with  John 
Gwynne's  telegram,  shook  her  head,  perplexedly. 

At  luncheon,  Lucia  appeared,  less  gay,  though  still 
flushed  and  ardent  with  intention.  "It's  wonder- 
ful," she  said,  "to  have  one  uninterrupted  morning — 
to  know  there's  no  ordering  to  be  done,  and  that 
John  won't  come  tearing  home  for  early  lunch.  I 
really  believe  I  shall  accomplish  something — if  I 
work,"  she  added,  a  little  pucker  coming  between 
her  eyes. 

After  lunch,  she  went  back  to  it.  Mrs.  Loring 
wished  she  would  lie  down  and  rest  her  eyes;  but 
she  knew  Lucia  fairly  well :  she  did  not  suggest  it. 
That  night  when  Ambrose  Fayerweather  came  to 
dinner,  he  said  warmly,  "Well,  well!  And  so  the 
mother  tells  me  you're  at  work  again,  drawing! 
What  energy  you  youngsters  have,  to  be  sure !" 

Lucia,  who  was  genuinely  fond  of  him,  did  not 
answer  that  she  was  as  old  as  her  own  grandmother, 
but  said  with  a  kind  of  enthusiasm,  "Yes,  isn't  it 
nice !  I  feel  as  though  I  should  really  get  something 


LUCIA— A  MERE  WIFE        219 

done.  Though — it's  rather  hard,  of  course,  starting 
in  again,  after  so  many  years." 

"Of  mere  wife-hood,  eh?"  Mr.  Fayerweather 
looked  at  her  a  bit  wistfully  from  under  his  iron- 
grey  brows.  "By  the  way,  I  saw  that  husband  of 
yours  the  other  day.  They  tell  me  he's  a  man  to 
reckon  with,  now.  I  tell  them — but  you  always  get 
cross  with  me  when  I  tell  the  truth  about  yourself." 

Lucia  smiled  at  him.  And  he  remembered  she 
had  always  been  a  confoundedly  pretty  girl.  "Dear 
Mr.  Fayerweather,  I'm  never  cross  with  you.  I'm 
only  unconvinced." 

"Oh!  very  well  then"  (they  were  waiting  for  her 
mother  and  dinner),  "I'll  tell  you:  when  people  say 
to  me  what  a  splendid  fellow  Gwynne  is,  and  how 
successful,  I  say  yes,  but  who's  backing  him?  Mrs. 
Gwynne!" 

"Backing  him?"  repeated  Lucia  slowly. 

"Why,  yes.  Haven't  you  always  furnished  the 
brains  of  the  combination — the  spark?  My  dear 
Lucia,  we  all  know  that  delightful  head  of  yours 
works  in  twenty  directions  a  minute!" 


220        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

Lucia  looked  at  him  curiously.  "No.  It  works 
in  only  two."  And  they  kill  each  other,  she  started 
to  add;  but  changed  it  to  "I'm  afraid  neither  has 
ever  helped  John." 

"Nonsense — non — sense !  Why,  Gwynne  was  no- 
where until  he  got  married;  and  since  then — he's 
simply  soared !  There's  no  holding  him  down.  Be- 
lieve me,  Lucia,  I  hear  it  from  men  who " 

"Oh,  of  course  he's  done  well.  I — I'm  tremen- 
dously proud  of  John's  success.  But  it's  his  own 
success,  Mr.  Fayerweather,"  Lucia  said  passionately. 
"I  haven't  contributed  to  the  length  of  an  idea!" 
The  suddenness  with  which  it  struck  her,  almost 
overwhelmed  Lucia  Gwynne. 

"My  dear,"  said  Ambrose,  looking  at  her,  "you — 
none  of  you — can  tell  what  you  contribute. 
You're  women,  aren't  you?"  He  glanced  through 
the  door,  at  the  stairs  where  her  mother  was  coming 
down.  "That's  one  thing  you  can't  help  or  evade. 
And — you  don't  know  what  you  contribute." 

Lucia,  during  dinner,  thought  about  it.  It  was 
a  new  kind  of  thinking  for  her:  what  she  didn't 


LUCIA— A  MERE  WIFE        221 

know ;  what  she  could  not  possibly  determine ;  what 
didn't  balance  with  anything  else.  In  it,  she  forgot 
the  somewhat  disheartening  disclosures  of  the  day's 
work — that  her  technique  was  laborious  rather  than 
a  joy — that  it  was  hard,  impossible  almost,  to  get 
back  at  the  end  of  the  years;  and  remembered  to 
write  to  Tommy.  She  wondered  if  he  had  put  his 
boots  away,  and  if  he  was  homesick.  Funny  little 
freckle- faced  Tommy!  Two  stubborn  tears,  like 
those  that  had  worked  their  way  out  of  his  brave 
brown  eyes  when  he  parted  from  her,  rose  suddenly 
to  Lucia's.  How  weak  she  was !  she  told  herself,  the 
next  minute,  impatiently. 

But  she  wrote  to  Tommy  that  night,  before  she 
went  to  bed.  And  at  the  end  she  said — instead  of 
the  caution  about  colds  he  hated  so — "Mother  wishes 
she  could  kiss  you  good-night — really,  truly  good- 
night, little  son!"  When  she  had  sent  the  letter, 
she  was  inclined  to  be  scornful  of  that  last  bit.  The 
foolish  third  person — it  was  only  an  advanced  baby- 
talk,  that  in  her  training  of  Tommy  she  had  rigor- 
ously excluded. 


222         THE  UNPRETENDERS 

Next  day  she  worked  harder  than  ever,  and  when 
John's  telegram  came,  she  did  not  even  know  it. 
She  was  upstairs,  putting  her  eyes  out  drawing  a  bit 
of  lace  on  the  gown  of  a  gorgeous  Wenzell  lady. 
Come  right,  it  would  not.  All  afternoon  she  toiled; 
got  a  smudge  on  her  nose  that  stayed  there  when 
Ada  Barker  came  to  tea,  and  a  general  irritability 
that  caused  that  young  woman  to  say  later,  "Well, 
I  didn't  know  Lucia  Gwynne  had  gone  off  so !  She's 
positively  untidy,  and  so  sharp!" 

That,  Lucia's  mother  had  reason  to  echo  during 
those  twenty-four  hours.  But  mothers  don't  echo, 
somehow.  They  exonerate.  Mrs.  Loring  was  kept 
busy  exonerating,  while  that  bit  of  lace  tied  itself 
up  in  knots,  and  haughtily  refused  unravelling. 
When  in  the  evening  John  Gwynne  wired  "why 
doesn't  Lucia  write  to  me  ?"  Lucia's  mother  replied, 
"She's  drawing  a  piece  of  lace."  When,  an  hour 
later,  he  demanded,  "What  in  thunder  ails  her?" 
Mrs.  Loring  wired  back,  "Why  don't  you  come  and 
see  for  yourself?" 

He  came. 


LUCIA— A  MERE  WIFE       223 

Three  days  after  Lucia  had  arrived,  throwing  her- 
self down  on  the  little  sofa,  her  husband  followed 
suit.  He  looked  extraordinarily  big  there. 

"Where's  Lucia?"  he  asked  instantly. 

"Drawing  lace,"  said  Mrs.  Loring — 'about  whose 
pretty  mouth  were  little  lines. 

"Is  she  mad?"  demanded  her  husband. 

"She  has  been — very  near  it."  Mrs.  Loring 
looked  intently  into  Gwynne's  face.  "Lucia  thinks 
too  much.  You  don't  give  her  enough  to  do." 

"Thinks  too  much — not  enough  to  do  ?  Why,  isn't 
she  my  wife?  What  should  she  do,  except  give  or- 
ders to  the  servants  and  enjoy  herself?  I  don't 
want  her  to  do  anything !" 

"Then  you  mustn't  be  surprised,"  said  her  mother, 
"if  she  comes  off  to  me  and  draws  lace." 

"What?    If  she— what?" 

"If  she  finds  something  to  do  for  herself." 

"But  she's  always  busy — rushing  about,  with  a 
thousand  things  to — !  That's  one  reason  why  I 
was  glad  to  have  her  get  away:  the  only  reason. 


224        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

She  looked  fagged  to  death.      And  you  say  she 
hasn't  anything  to  do !" 

"Nothing  with  her  head.  Only  her  arms  and  legs 
— and  nerves.  For  Lucia  that's  not  enough.  If 
her  head  isn't  busied,  it  gets  away  from  her, 
and " 

"You  tell  her  to  come  down  here,"  broke  in  John 
Gwynne  suddenly.  "Please!  Tell  her  to  come  down 
here,  and " 

Lucia  appeared  in  the  door.  There  were  two 
smudges  on  her  nose.  "I  simply  can't  get  that 
wretched" — she  began :  then,  with  a  gasp,  "Oh ! 
John!  Why — why — > — " 

"Hello,  little  girl !"  John  caught  her,  smudges  and 
all,  half  way  across  the  room.  Mrs.  Loring  van- 
ished. "Are  you — glad  to  see  me?" 

Lucia's  lips  were  buried  somewhere  about  his  ear. 
"But — I — I — yes,"  she  murmured  with  difficulty. 
"I — was  trying  to  draw  lace." 

"Well,"  said  John  Gwynne,  "you're  going  to  draw 
a  good  deal  bigger  things  than  that."  John  Gwynne 
could  act  quickly  in  matters  of  importance.  "I've 


LUCIA— A  MERE  WIFE       225 

a  million-dollar  combine  up  for  dicker  this  week — 
Fayerweather  and  Lodge  and  some  of  the  fellows 
are  in  it  with  me — and  it's  to  do  with  an  art  collec- 
tion of  a  regent  prince  who's  gone  bankrupt  and 
who's  got  to  sell  to  pay  his  debts.  We're  think- 
ing of  buying;  and  I  want  your — why,  Lucia,  honey, 
what's  the  matter?  Sit  down.  Why " 

For  Lucia  was  crying.  First,  softly,  then  tem- 
pestuously ;  as  though  her  heart  would  break.  John 
drew  her  down  by  him  on  the  sofa,  and  patted  her 
hand.  "It's  all  right,  honey,"  he  said  steadily,  "it's 
all  right.  I  know — I  took  you  by  surprise,  and  you 
were  tired  to  death,  and — well,  maybe  you'd  better 
come  home,  Lucy." 

"Oh,  John — John,"  she  tried  to  control  herself, 
"you  don't  understand.  It's  not  that — it's — John, 
don't  you  see,  I've  tried  all  along  to  keep  tab  on 
things!  I've  put  down  so  much  on  your  side,  and 
so  much  on  mine ;  and  then  added  them  up.  What 
you  gave  out  I  gave — and  they  always  tallied.  And 
at  last — oh,  don't  you  see  how  dreary  it  got  ?  How 


226        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

worthless?  But  /  couldn't  stop  doing  it.  I  was  like 
a  wound-up  clock.  And  so — ' — " 

"And  so  now  you  are  going  to  begin  a  new  col- 
umn called  our  side,"  put  in  John  Gwynne,  covering 
her  hands.  "And,  Lucia!  It'll  be  so  mixed  up,  and 
in  such  big  figures,  you  can  never  count  'em — my 
dear!  And,  anyhow,  we'll  be  too  busy.  I'm  going 
to  send  for  Tommy — after  you  and  I — > — "  with 
swift  tenderness,  he  kissed  her. 

While  Gwynne,  next  day,  was  standing  with 
Lucia  in  the  room  hung  with  the  wistaria  and  pale 
rosebuds  of  ten  years  ago,  Ambrose  Fayerweather 
was  saying  to  Mrs.  Loring,  "but  I  thought  she  came 
to  make  a  long  visit?" 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Loring  defensively,  "she  stayed 
three  days!" 


X 

ROGER— PLAINLY  AN  IDLER 

"En  bien,  Marcel !  and  how  does  it  go  ?"  I  asked. 
"Oh,  it  goes,  m'sieu — it  goes,  always.    But — ' — " 

"Yes?    'But' ?" 

"Well,  m'sieu"  (pulling  my  chair  out,  uneasily), 

• 

"it  is  the  season  of  the  Americans,  and — but  par- 
don, m'sieu!" 

"Don't  mind  me,"  I  said,  pouncing  on  the  carte 
du  jour  of  the  Cafe  aux  Oranges.  "In  Paris  I  am 
equally  content  as  you  to  forget  it — that  I  am  Amer- 
ican. Alors,  Marcel! — it  will  be  hors  d'ceuvres  va- 
ries, and  then  an  omelette  fines  herbes,  and  then,  I 
think,  an  assiette  anglaise  with  a  bit  of  salad,  eh? 
and  a  Camembert,  to  finish." 

Marcel  regarded  me  solemnly — consideringly — > 
from  over  the  wide  block  rims  of  his  glasses.  "But 

227 


228        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

yes,  m'sieu,"  he  said  at  last,  grudgingly,  "I  suppose 
that  it  can  go,  as  a  breakfast.  And  monsieur 
drinks ?" 

"Beer,"  I  was  suddenly  occupied  with  an  extraor- 
dinarily pretty  girl  in  the  orangier  opposite,  "demi- 
brune,  Marcel." 

"Pardon,  m'sieu,  demiblonde — er — I — a  thou- 
sand pardons,  m'sieu!"  Confused,  the  old  fellow 
brought  his  eyes  back  from  the  same  direction ;  made 
a  violent  effort  to  blush,  and  hurried  off,  murmur- 
ing, "demibrune,  m'sieu,  it  is  understood!" 

I  looked  again  at  the  girl.  Even  for  the  Cafe 
aux  Oranges,  where  in  spring,  like  this,  there  are 
as  many  pretty  girls  as  blossoms  on  the  chestnut 
trees  above  the  little  tables, — she  was  extraordinar- 
ily pretty.  And  she  was  American.  One  knew  that 
by  the  upholstered  shoulders  of  the  young  man  and 
the  shopping-bag  of  the  lady,  who  were  with  her. 
The  lady  was  frowning  over  the  menu. 

"I  will  not  come  here  again!"  she  was  heard  to 
say,  in  a  voice  with  as  many  corners  as  her  shopping1 


ROGER— PLAINLY  AN  IDLER  229 

bag.  "The  second  time  this  week — no  roast  beef! 
I'll  not  come  again.  It's  a  cheap  place." 

"But,  mamma"  (by  straining  one's  ears,  one  could 
just  get  the  low  response  of  the  pretty  girl)  "it's  a 
very  nice  place,  really!  And  don't  you  know  it  is 
one  of  the  very  few  old  cafes  of  the  Quarter — the 
old  French  cafes — Roger  told  us?" 

"Roger!"  exploded  the  lady  (there  was  no  diffi- 
culty in  hearing  her).  "If  Roger  knew  less  about 
cafes,  it  would  be  a  great  deal  better  for——" 

Marcel  returned  with  the  hors  d'ceuvres.  But 
not  before  I  had  seen  a  thin  smile  overtake  the  fea- 
tures of  the  heavy-shouldered  young  man. 

"Who  are  they?"  I  asked  Marcel,  carelessly 
enough. 

With  a  thump  he  set  down  the  radishes.  "They, 
m'sieu?"  Scornfully,  "they  are  Americans  who  are 
come  since  m'sieu  went  away.  While  m'sieu  was 
in  Italy  they  came  to  live  in  the  Rue  Vavin,  near  by. 
They  are  friends  of  Monsieur  Roger  Elmont — <ce 
beau  garfon!  But  mademoiselle  is  an  angel — but 
of  a  goodness !  Only  last  Sunday  she  gave  me  two 


230        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

francs  ten,  and  always  when  she  takes  coffee  here 
in  the  evening — but  she  is  very  good  for  me." 

"And  the  others?    The  mother  and  brother?" 

"Pah!  what  would  you?  Canaille! — tourists — 
but  it  is  not  her  brother,  m'sieu.  It  is  the  futur  of 
mademoiselle,  saints  dieux!" 

"Not  possible !  But  are  you  sure,  Marcel  ?  How 
do  you  know?" 

"Listen,  m'sieu" — he  lowered  his  voice — "m'sieu 
eats  his  crevettes,  and  I  shall  recount  to  him :  listen. 
A  month  ago,  before  one  began  to  take  the  repasts 
outside  at  Cafe  aux  Oranges,  there  came  one  evening 
these  three  and  Monsieur  Roger.  They  are  gay — 
but  of  a  gaiety!  They  order  dinner  and — mais  si! 
champagne  and  champagne — first  Monsieur  Roger, 
then  this  young  man,  Stuart,  he  calls  himself,  I 
think.  This  Monsieur  Stuart,  of  champagne  he  him- 
self orders  two  bottles.  But  they  are  friendly,  he 
and  Monsieur  Roger;  they  are  like  brothers. 

"Then — I  am  serving  them,  I  and  Little- John — < 
all  of  a  sudden  something  happens.  Something  is 
said — I  am  out,  searching  their  dessert,  I  do  not 


ROGER— PLAINLY  AN  IDLER  231 

hear.  But  Little-John  hears,  and  he  murmurs  to 
me,  stupidly  in  high  voice  as  he  always  does,  'it  is 
the  futur  of  Mademoiselle,  that  one  with  the  made 
shoulders.  Madame  has  come  from  telling  Mon- 
sieur Roger.'  This,  then,  is  the  cause  of  the  quick 
silence,  and  of  Monsieur  Roger's  pale  face,  and 
mademoiselle's  blushes — ah,  but  she  is  beautiful, 
mademoiselle;  m'sieu  finds  her  brunette!  For  my- 
self, to  me  she  seems  blonde.  Such  blue  eyes  and 
the  skin  so  white,  like  camelia,  though  certainly  her 
hair " 

"Never  mind,"  I  said,  buttering  a  heel  of  bread, 
"I  can  see  her  hair." 

"But  perfectly,  m'sieu.  I  was  saying,  Monsieur 
Roger  is  all  of  a  surprise  with  the  news.  He  has 
not  known  mademoiselle  is  engaged.  But  yes,  says 
madame  with  victory,  since  two  months — since  the 
ship  in  which  they  came  from  America.  This — 
how  you  say? — Chames?  Chames  Stuart  was  on 
that  ship.  Madame  is  an  intimate  of  M.  Stuart's 
mother.  To  Monsieur  Roger,  madame  tells  with 
what  singular  air  of  double  entendre,  this  Chames 


282        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

Stuart  is  a  man  to  be  trusted.  A  good  man.  Mon- 
sieur Roger  throws  back  his  head  and  laughs — 
very  long. 

"But,  m'sieu,  I  do  not  like  to  hear  that  laugh. 
Myself,  I  am  foolish  for  Monsieur  Roger,  like  all 
the  rest  at  Cafe  aux  Oranges,  more  than  all  the 
other  garfons  I  am  foolish  for  him.  Do  I  not  know 
him  since  he  came,  poor  obscure  student,  five  years 
ago?  But  of  a  certainty!  And  that  laugh,  it  is  not 
the  laugh  of  Monsieur  Roger — rich,  successful, 
grand  artiste.  No!  it  is  a  laugh  that  hides  tears, 
suffering  maybe.  I  do  not  know.  Surely  it  makes 
me  regard  Monsieur  Roger  more  closely,  while  he 
says,  with  what  legerete,  'but  certainly  madame! 
one  knows  that  you  would  give  Julie  to  none  but  a 
good  man — that  you  would  assure  yourself  as  to 
his  goodness/ 

"Then,  while  mademoiselle  and  Chames  Stuart  sip 
their  coffee,  madame  speaks  to  him  severely.  I  un- 
derstand but  meagerly  English,  m'sieu  knows,  I  at- 
trap  a  word  here  and  there — of  girls  and  student 
balls  and  the  gay  life  of  the  Ouartier  that  has  em- 


ROGER— PLAINLY  AN  IDLER  233 

broiled  Monsieur  Roger.  Truly,  m'sieu,  he  has  al- 
ways seemed  to  me  a  brave  young  man,  ce  beau  gar- 
Qon,  not  at  all  a  mean  young  man  or  of  mauvais  sang, 
like  some  who  come  here;  but  he  has  been  young, 
parbleu !  The  saints  be  thanked,  he  has  been  young. 
Yet  with  that  does  Madame  reproach  him,  in  low 
tones.  Monsieur  Roger's  mother,  madame  says,  has 
heard  of  his  follies  but  too  often;  her  heart  is 
broken.  'Nor  can  your  success  repair  it,'  adds 
madame  with  harshness.  'All  Baltimore  knows  of 
your  wild  affairs  and  your  mother's  shame.'  M'sieu, 
I  do  not  know  who  is  this  Baltimore,  but  I  think 
he  must  be  droll,  if  he  is  shocked  at  Monsieur  Rog- 
er's folies  de  jeunesse.  N'est  ce  pas?  But  certainly, 
m'sieu — the  omelette!" 

When  he  had  brought  it,  "M'sieu  does  not  ennui 
himself?  M'sieu  permits  that  I  go  on?" 

"Go  on,"  I  said — looking  at  the  wide  blue  eyes  of 
the  girl  in  the  orangier  opposite. 

"That  evening  passes  itself.  I  do  not  know  why, 
mademoiselle — the  blush  once  gone — 'looks  pale  and 
distraite.  She  speaks  quite  gay  and  very  fast,  yet 


234         THE  UNPRETENDERS 

— why  she  is  sad  one  can  but  imagine.  This  Chames 
Stuart,  he  is  scarcely  of  a  beauty,  hein?  A  beauty 
like  Monsieur  Roger  with  his  black  hair  and  his  gay 
smile  and  his  figure  like — Dame !  But  I  am  foolish 
for  Monsieur  Roger,  all  the  Cafe  knows.  And  he, 
what  does  he  do  ?  He  says  good-night  with  cmpres- 
sement,  formally,  and  hopes  he  may  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  seeing  these  ladies  again  very  soon.  With 
Chames  Stuart  he  shakes  hands — yet  more  formally. 
They  separate. 

"Second  chapter,  it  is — what  do  you  think, 
m'sieu?  Mademoiselle  and  Monsieur  Roger  alone! 
But  of  a  surety !  They  come  in  one  warm  afternoon 
and  order  tea — but  they  come  inside  and  far  over 
in  one  corner,  and  mademoiselle  glances  about,  ner- 
vously and  says,  'Oh,  Roger,  it  is  rash !  It  is  wrong 
— I  ought  not  to  have  come.'  But  he  soothes  her — > 
Mon  Dieu:  what  a  voice :  what  strength — what  ten- 
derness divine !  The  emotion  a  young  girl  must  feel 
for  him — one  can  but  imagine — he  soothes  her  and 
tells  her  it  was  of  a  necessity  for  him,  this  little 
hour  alone  with  her. 


ROGER— PLAINLY  AN  IDLER  235 

"  'For  I  was  to  have  married  you,  Julie,  you 
know/  he  says  sadly.  'Our  mothers  planned  it  when 
you  were  a  little  girl  in — how  you  say,  m'sieu? 
pinafore?  and  I  a  clumsy  boy  in  knickers.  Have 
you  forgotten?' 

"  'No,'  says  mademoiselle  with  a  little  sigh ;  'but 
— they  say  yon  did.  They  say — mamma  and  your 
mother  too — that  you  forgot  everything  but  what 
you  should  have  forgotten;  that  you  flung  your 
name  and  the  reputation  of  your  family  to  the  four 
winds,  and  cared  for  nothing  but  pleasure ! — and  dis- 
sipation and  mad  gaieties.  They  say !  mademoiselle 
tells  him  with  a  break  in  her  lovely  voice,  'that  you 
aren't  fit  to  marry  a  young  girl — that  you  would 
break  her  heart.' 

"Monsieur  Roger  cursed — softly,  under  his 
breath.  But  I,  m'sieu,  heard  him. 

"  'Idiots !'  he  mutters  between  his  teeth.  'Fools — 
prurient-minded  canaille ! — to  fill  a  child's  head  with 
such  drivel.  But  it's  dangerous  drivel.'  He 
turns  to  mademoiselle. — ''Listen,  Julie,'  he  says 
with  what  gentleness,  'Americans  have  different 


236        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

ideas  from  ours  over  here.  They  lead  the  same 
lives,'  says  Monsieur  Roger  bitterly,  'but  they  have 
different  ideas  about  those  lives.  They  take  trouble 
to  conceal.  Here  in  Paris,  one  lives  as  one  lives, — 
openly.  One  is  ashamed  of  nothing, — except  mean- 
ness. I/  says  Monsieur  Roger  proudly,  'am 
ashamed  of  nothing.  I  have  been  foolish,  yes !  wild. 
Did  I  not  come  here,  a  boy  of  twenty-one,  from 
my  mother  and  Baltimore  (I  wonder  what  is  this 
Baltimore,  m'sieu?),  from  all  the  stupid  conventions 
of  a  society  that  is  nothing  but  afraid?  Of  course  I 
was  wild;  and  the  people  we  know,  who  came  to 
Paris,  would  go  back  with  great  tales  of  my  esca- 
pades.' 

"Monsieur  Roger  folds  his  arms  suddenly. 
'Julie/  he  says  with  earnestness,  'I  am  ready  to  tell 
you  anything — answer  any  question  you  may  care 
to  put,  about  my  life  here  in  Paris/ 

"Mademoiselle  looks  frightened — confused.  Also 
she  reddens, — she  is  of  a  youth,  enchanting ! 

"  'But,  Roger/  she  says  timidly,  'I  would  not 
know  how  to  ask  you  questions.  I ' 


ROGER— PLAINLY  AN  IDLER   237 

"  "Then  listen/  he  says,  leaning  forward  until  his 
black  eyes  stare  into  her  blue  ones ;  'I  could  tell  you 
almost  anything,  and  you  would  believe  me,  Julie?' 

"  'Yes,'  says  mademoiselle  faintly. 

"  'I  could  tell  you  no,  I  have  not  been  all  these 
things — I  have  not  drunk  much  nor  gambled  nor 
lost  at  cards,  as  they  all  say,  nor — had  flirtations 
with  women.  I  could  tell  you  that,  couldn't  I,  and 
you  would  believe  me  ?' 

"  'Ye-es/  mademoiselle  says — yet  more  faintly. 

"  'Well,  I  tell  you  nothing  of  the  sort !  I  tell  you, 
yes,  Julie — •!  have  done  all  these  things ;  I  have  been 
wild  and  extravagant,  and  what  you  call  dissipated, 
perhaps.  I  have  been  all  these ;  but  since  how  long? 
and  to  whose  harm — except  my  own  ?  Can  you  find 
me  a  man  in  the  Quarter  who  will  tell  you  that,  since 
a  year,  I  have  been  anything  but  what  you  see  me 
now — sane  and  keen  for  my  work?  Can  you  find 
me  a  woman  who  will  tell  you  that  since  a  year  she 
has  seen  me  anywhere  but  drinking  coffee  in  some 
place  like  this — or  that  ever,  in  all  the  five  years,  I 
was  anything  but  gentle  and  courteous  to  her?  You 


238        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

cannot,  Julie!'  cries  Monsieur  Roger  passionately, 
'you  cannot !' 

"Mademoiselle  Julie  is  trembling — and  there  are 
tears  in  her  blue  eyes. 

"  'With  you/  declares  Monsieur  Roger,  'as  with 
all  the  world — Paris,  Baltimore,  all! — I  am  what  I 
am.  I  seek  to  be  nothing  else.  But  I  think  you  have 
never  quite  understood  what  I  am — is  it  not  so?' 

"Mademoiselle  shakes  her  head.  She  is  overcome 
— pauif  petite! —  But  m'sieu  is  famishing!  M'sieu's 
assiette  anglaise — an  instant !" 

He  hurried  back  with  it,  and  stood  anxiously  mix- 
ing my  salad  dressing — though  his  sharp  old  eyes 
strayed  sometimes  to  the  trio  in  the  orangier  op- 
posite. "After  that,"  he  went  on  triumphantly, 
"Monsieur  Roger  is  bold — but  of  a  boldness!  He 
takes  mademoiselle's  hand — they  have  no  shame 
whatever  over  the  tea  which  is  still  in  the  pot! — 
and  says  to  her  with  a  simplicity  that  alarms,  'tell 
me — do  you  love  this  Chames  Stuart?' 

"  'Love  him  ?'  almost  screams  mademoiselle.  'Are 
you  out  of  your  mind?' 


ROGER— PLAINLY  AN  IDLER   239 

"  'Then/  says  Monsieur  Roger,  with  the  air  of  a 
King  of  France,  'I'm  going  to  marry  you.  It  is  de- 
cided. You  have  nothing  more  to  say  about  it.' 

"Mademoiselle  blushes  divinely — leans  a  suspi- 
cion towards  him.  They  sigh — ah,  youth  enchant- 
ing! What  they  feel  one  can  but  imagine.  He 
kisses  her  hand — of  me  they  are  oblivious;  until — 
I  cough  like  one  in  the  throes  of  sudden  death.  They 
start  apart.  Madame  has  entered!  And  Chames 
Stuart! 

"I  wring  my  hands  and  babble  Holy  Mary's.  In 
such  a  case  what  can  one  do  that  is  practical  ?  Noth^ 
ing.  I  wait — in  terror  for  Monsieur  Roger  and 
mademoiselle.  But  Monsieur  Roger  speaks,  with  a 
calm  supernal,  'Will  you  not  have  tea,  madame  ?'  he 
demands,  offering  her  his  place  all  politely.  But  she 
— madame — 'Sweeps  by  him.  Catches  mademoiselle 
by  the  arm.  *I  thought  this/  she  cries — 'when  I 
missed  you!  I  suspected  it,  you  ungrateful  girl! 
Perhaps  when  you  hear  that  you  are  to  be  married 
next  week  at  the  Consulate,  and  to  Chames  Stuart' 
— then  she  does  look  at  Monsieur  Roger,  and  with 


240        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

scorn.  Chames  Stuart  looks  at  Monsieur  Roger  too 
— >and  gives  a  little  smile.  It  is  like  his  shoulders, 
that  smile,  m'sieu — made  up  and  put  on.  When  I 
see  this  Chames  Stuart,  I  feel  like  Bibi,  our  cafe 
dog,  who  shows  her  teeth  at  him.  Madame  says  he 
is  a  good  man — tant  pis!  For  myself,  if  it  is  true,  I 
prefer  a  devil. 

"The  three  go  out,  mademoiselle  looks  at  Mon- 
sieur Roger  not  at  all.  She  looks  very  far  away 
from  him.  And  Monsieur  Roger  is  left  with  the  pot 
of  tea — that  has  grown  cold.  When  I  ask  him  shall 
I  renew  it,  he  says  'to  be  married  next  week !  And 
to  Chames  Stuart !'  And  then  he  laughs  one  laugh 
— very  short — 'Indeed !'  he  says — throwing  back  his 
head  like  he  does — 'indeed!'  And  he  marches  out 
of  the  cafe,  with  two  steps — but  he  has  legs,  Mon- 
sieur Roger! — forgetting  to  pay — everything.  But 
I  do  not  worry,  m'sieu.  I  know,  when  he  comes  to- 
morrow, he  will  give  me  the  two  francs  fifty — and 
something  more.  He  is  very  good  for  me,  Mon- 
sieur Roger. 

"Entin,  that  was  two  weeks  ago.    And  still  made- 


ROGER— PLAINLY  AN  IDLER  241 

moiselle  is  not  married.  But  htlas,  it  approaches. 
Yesterday  when  madame  came  with  her  alone,  I 
heard  madame  say,  'Monday — not  a  day  later.'  And 
I  know  that  it  is  because  of  money  difficulties  that 
she  is  anxious.  Chames  Stuart  has  much  money. 
So  has  Monsieur  Roger,  but  not  so  much  as  Chames 
Stuart,  and,  as  madame  insists  to  mademoiselle, 
Monsieur  Roger  is  not  good.  One  day — yesterday 
— mademoiselle  cried  out,  'Oh,  how  do  you  know 
what  is  good  and  what  is  not  good  ?  What  matters 
is  what  is  true!'  Madame  is  shocked — horrified  at 
this  temper.  And  after  an  instant  mademoiselle 
apologizes — with  meekness — Pawif  petite!  What 
she  feels,  one  can  but  imagine." 

He  gave  me  my  cheese,  and  stared  gloomily  at  the 
back  of  Chames  Stuart's  sandy  head.  "Monday!" 
I  heard  him  mutter,  belligerently.  Then  to  me — 
"But  where  then  is  Monsieur  Roger?  Only  now 
does  mademoiselle  whisper  to  me  if  he  has  been 
here — Monsieur  Roger.  Since  that  day  when  he 
comes  to  pay  for  the  tea,  he  is  not  here.  I  think  he 
tries  somewhere  to  console  himself,  but  I  do  not  tell 


242        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

mademoiselle.  A  young  girl  cannot  understand  such 
things." 

"Then  she  should,"  I  declared  with  a  warmth 
that  surprised  myself — 'forty,  and  inclined  to  take 
young  girls  and  the  rest  of  life  negligently.  "It  is 
because  young  girls  don't  understand  such  things 
better,  that  they  let  themselves  be  overruled  by 
James  Stuarts  and  mammas  with  empty  shopping- 
bags,"  I  snapped,  to  the  wonder  of  old  Marcel. 

My  eyes  just  then  had  met  the  troubled  blue  of 
the  girl's — the  three  were  leaving.  James  Stuart 
took  her  arm,  always  with  that  thin,  satisfied  smile. 
I  glared  at  him.  I  do  not  like  good  young  men  with 
padded  shoulders,  and  a  smile  for  features.  I 
grumbled  as  much  to  Marcel,  who  shook  his  head 
astonished  (delighted,  too)  at  my  vehemence. 
"Madame  tells  mademoiselle  there  is  nothing  in  his 
life  which  this  Chames  Stuart  might  not  tell  to  her," 
he  said  scornfully.  "That  no  one  has  seen  him  or 
heard  of  him  doing  anything  to  be  condemned.  Eh! 
la!  la!"  The  Frenchman  rolled  his  eyes.  "C'est  un 
drole  d'ideale,  hein  m'sieu?  These  Americans! — 


ROGER— PLAINLY  AN  IDLER   243 

pardon,  m'sieu!  M'sieu's  hat?  A  ce  soir,  alors, 
m'sieu." 

That  evening  at  dinner  he  came  up  to  my  table, 
with  an  air  of  tremendous  excitement.  Indeed  the 
whole  Cafe  aux  Oranges  seemed  curiously  alert,  al- 
most explosive.  Mademoiselle  Julie  and  her  mother 
were  there  in  their  corner,  sipping  petits  verres — 
mademoiselle's  cheeks  the  color  of  jacqueminots,  to 
be  sure,  and  madame's  with  more  corners  than  ever 
— if  possible.  But  what  caught  my  attention  was 
— heaven  of  heavens! — Roger  Elmont  sitting  di- 
rectly opposite  them,  between  Mar  got  and  Suzette! 
the  two  madcaps  of  the  Quarter !  James  Stuart  was 
not  in  the  cafe. 

"But,  m'sieu,  listen — listen  while  I  tell  you,"  old 
Marcel's  words  tumbled  over  themselves  in  his 
eagerness — '"M'sieu  has  dined,  heinf  M'sieu  takes 
only  coffee  and  his  liqueur?  Listen,  then,  m'sieu: 
these  ladies,  they  come  in  alone.  They  order  din- 
ner— which  mademoiselle  will  scarcely  touch.  She 
is  miserable,  she  is  without  herself.  At  last  she 
says  with  a  bitterness  that  is  to  break  the  heart,  'If 


244        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

it's  only  the  money,  Roger  has  plenty;  and  I  am 
going  to  tell  him  to-night  that  if  it's  true,  what  he 
says  about  his  life  this  last  year,  and  if  he  can  prove 
to  you  that  it's  true,  I  will  marry  him.  Chames 
Stuart,'  says  mademoiselle — but  with  a  calm — 'can 
go  back  to  America.' 

"Madame  is  furious.  'But,'  she  repeats,  'he  can- 
not prove  it — Roger  can  never  prove  it,  that  he  has 
been  good  this  last  year.' 

"  7  can/  flashes  mademoiselle  with  a  defiance, 
mon  Dieu,  divine!  'We  can  prove  it.  Only  wait 
and ' 

"M'sieu,  at  this  heart-rending  moment,  I  ask  you 
does  not  Monsieur  Roger  come  in!  Monsieur 
Roger  and"  (Marcel  groaned  in  anguish)  "that  mad 
Suzette! — arm  in  arm,  singing,  laughing — m'sieu,  I, 
the  old  gargon  de  cafe,  Marcel,  want  to  perish !  And, 
can  you  believe  me,  they  do  not  see  those  ladies,  no  f 
But — nom  de  Dieu! — another  sees  them!  Margot 
— the  vixen — who  was  mad  for  Monsieur  Roger  all 
last  year;  Margot  sees  them.  She  makes  a  rush — • 
she  leaves  her  escort — she  insults  Suzette — tears  her 


ROGER— PLAINLY  AN  IDLER  245 

hat  off.  They  scream !  they  pull  each  other's  hair — 
the  cafe  is  of  a  furore!  And  Monsieur  Roger,  he 
only  laughs — he  just  laughs,  and  teases  those  girls 
to  wilder  and  wilder  rage. 

"Still  he  does  not  see  mademoiselle — ^paui/  petite, 
so  white,  suddenly! — who  begs  to  go;  but  madame 
will  not  permit  her.  Hard  as  iron  she  holds  made- 
moiselle's arm  and  makes  her  see.  'Now  will  you 
prove  ?'  she  demands,  with  triumph.  'Now  can  you 
prove  ? — this  scandal !'  Mademoiselle  answers  noth- 
ing. She  looks  very  little  and  very  white.  Now 
the  patron  has  come  in,  peace  is  ruled,  and  Mon- 
sieur Roger  with  good  nature  promises  to  give  both 
those  girls  dinner.  But  del!  m'sieu,  at  the  instant, 
he  has  seen  mademoiselle !  It  is  tragedy.  What  will 
happen?  It  is  just  at  the  moment  of  m'sieu's  en- 
trance that  he  perceived  this — oh,  poor  young  man ! 
Is  he  desolated! — 'what  he  feels  one  can  but  im- 
agine. I  am  bringing  m'sieu's  liqueur." 

I  glanced  about.  Mademoiselle  Julie  was  indeed 
abject;  nor  did  madame  and  her  shopping-bag  look 
too  happy  in  their  triumph.  As  for  Roger  Elmont 


246        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

— dark,  gloomy-eyed,  between  the  two  now  chatter- 
ing girls — he  looked,  if  anything,  the  most  wretched 
of  the  three.  All  at  once  he  rose,  walked  swiftly 
over  to  mademoiselle.  They  were  sitting  quite  near 
me,  to-night,  and  I  heard  him  say  in  a  firm  voice, 
"Julie,  I  want  to  explain." 

"Sir!"  said  madame,  indignantly.  (One  could 
have  sworn  she  would  say,  'Sir!') 

Roger  beautifully  disregarded  her.  "What  I 
told  you  was  true,  Julie,"  he  concentrated  all  the 
conviction  of  his  black  eyes  on  mademoiselle.  "I 
have  been  this  afternoon  to  the  studio  of  a  friend 
for  whom  Suzette  poses.  I  was  sad — God  knows 
I  had  reason — she  suggested  we  should  come  here. 
Margot — the  other  girl — came  across  us.  And — 
you  saw  the  rest.  If  you  do  not  believe  me,  others 
will  tell  you — what  I  told  you  was  true !  And  there 
is  nothing  else  to  tell — nothing." 

The  girl  looked  at  him — straight  in  the  eyes. 
Then  suddenly  she  stood  up.  "I  believe  you,"  she 
said — with  a  smile  for  which  I  would  give  all  the 
philosophy  of  forty  and  a  bald  head. 


ROGER— PLAINLY  AN  IDLER   247 

"Julie!"  cried  madame  sharply.  "You  foolish 
girl,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean,"  said  Julie  slowly,  "that  I  am  going  to 
marry  Roger." 

"You  shan't  do  it!"  declared  madame.  By  this 
time  again  the  cafe  was  on  the  verge  of  uproar. 
"You  are  to  marry  James  Stuart,  who  is  a  man  of 
moral  sense,  a  good  man  who •" 

Just  here,  James  Stuart  came  in — in  evening 
dress,  very  debonair  and  with  the  smile.  "Er — how 
de  do?"  he  said  feebly — seeing  Roger. 

Then  some  one  saw  him — and  darted  forward. 
"C'est  lui,  c'est  lid,"  screamed  Suzette,  seizing  him 
with  an  impish  laugh — "that  one  who  was  with  me 
at  the  Olympia  last  night — with  whom  I  did  the  tour 
of  Montmartre.  La!  la!  ces  anglais!"  And  the 
minx  kissed  Chames  Stuart  loudly  on  both  cheeks 
— before  the  outraged  eyes  of  madame. 

As  for  Roger  Elmont — he  looked  steadily  at 
madame. 

Madame  had  shrunk  back — for  an  instant 
crushed.  Then  she  regained  confidence,  caught  the 


248        THE  UNPRETENDERS 

girl's  hand.  "Come,"  she  said  in  a  voice  choking 
with  emotion,  "come,  Julie!  Let  us  go,  quickly — 
let  us  get  out  of  this  mire — this  mud  of  Paris,  where 
nothing  seems  to  be  clean  or  good.  Come !" 

But  the  girl — with  a  new  gleam  in  her  blue  eyes — 
turned  and  gave  her  hand  to  Roger.  "I  think,"  she 
said  to  her  mother  in  a  clear  voice,  "it  is  not  the 
mud  that  counts,  but  the  way  one  comes  out  of  it." 

"And  did  you  perceive,  m'sieu,"  chuckled  Marcel 
— when  later  I  was  drinking  their  health  in  a  fine 
champagne — -"did  you  see  that  Chames  Stuart  had, 
fault  of  the  wet  evening,  mud  on  his  boots?  Chames 
Stuart — that  'good  man,'  eh  nom  d'nn  pipe!  These 
Americans — pardon,  m'sieu !" 


THE   END 


The  Chalk  Line 

By  Anne  Warwick 

Author  of  "The  Unknown  Woman,"  "Victory  Law,"  etc. 

i2mo,  Cloth.    $1.25  net 


"This  dramatic  story  grips  from  the  first  page  and  holds 
tensely  until  at  the  end  of  the  four  days  of  quarantine  comes 
the  solution  of  a  problem  more  than  ordinarily  complex. " 

— Boston  Transcript 

"An  interesting  novel;  the  dialogue  is  easy  and  there  is  a 
great  deal  of  clever  character  analysis.  "—New  York  Times 

"The  situation  is  handled  in  an  able  and  original  manner, 
and  the  way  in  which  it  is  finally  solved  provides  an  unex- 
pected ending  for  a  thoroughly  engrossing  and  unusual  story. " 

— Newark  Evening  News 

"It  is  all  very  clever,  the  dialogue,  the  character  drawing, 
the  development  of  the  situation,  the  understanding  which 
comes  to  all  the  persons  concerned. "  — Bu/alo  Express 

"The  story  is  unusual,  both  in  sentiment  and  in  circum- 
stance.   The  d6nouement  is  dramatically  worked  out." 
— Philadelphia  Public  Ledger 

"When  a  woman,  her  past  lover,  her  present  lover  and  her 
husband  are  caught  in  the  same  house  and  quarantined  for 
something  like  a  fortnight,  the  reader  will  acknowledge  that 
the  situation  is  one  requiring  literary  tact.  After  reading 
'The  Chalk  Line'  he  will  concede  that  Anne  Warwick  has 
done  more  with  her  material  than  he  expected  ...  a  story 
that  is  distinctly  good."  —Chicago  Evening  Post 

John  Lane  Company,  Publishers,  New  York 


Novels  by  Anne  Warwick 


VICTORY  LAW  „„,», 


"Miss  Warwick's  novel  gives  special  emphasis  to  the 
fascination  of  the  world  behind  the  footlights;  to  the  call 
of  the  stage  ever  ringing  in  the  ears  of  those  who  have 
trodden  its  boards.  ...  A  delightful  book." 

—  New  York  Times. 

THE  UNKNOWN  WOMAN 

Colored  Frontispiece  by  WILL  Gufepfi 

I2mo,  Cloth,  $1.30  net 

A  society  novel  with  a  fresh,  original  touch,  with 
scenes  laid  in  New  York  and  Italy.  The  story  revolves 
around  an  artist  who  is  almost  ruined  through  catering  to 
the  vanity  of  a  millionaire  art  patron,  but  is  saved  in  the 
end  by  the  scarlet  woman. 

COMPENSATION  lsmo,aM^.3on,, 

"Anne  Warwick's  problem  novel  has  certain  attributes 
that  redeem  it  from  the  ordinary  class  of  problematic 
tales.  It  is  a  study  of  social  and  political  life  in  Washing- 
ton, written  with  sincerity  and  earnestness  of  purpose. 
Some  of  the  professional  hangers-on  in  Washington  society 
are  humorously  delineated  and  the  more  prominent  charac- 
ters are  admirably  drawn.  Prom  first  to  last  the  tale 
holds  the  undivided  attention  of  the  reader." 

—  Newark  Evening  News 


John  Lane  Company,  New  York 


BOOKS  BY  STEPHEN  LEACOCK 


BEHIND  THE  BEYOND 

AND  OTHER  CONTRIBUTIONS  TO  HUMAN  KNOWLEDGE 
ILLUSTRATED  BY  A.  H.  FISH 

"In  Mr.  Stephen  Leacock  we  have  a  humorist  of  very  marked 
individuality.  His  new  book, '  Behind  the  Beyond, '  is  undeniably 
mirth-provoking.  Dull  must  be  the  soul  who  does  not  find  some- 
thing to  laugh  at  in  the  five  sketches  called  'Familiar  Incidents' 
— visits  to  the  photographer,  the  dentist,  the  barber,  and  so  on. " 

— Boston  Transcript. 

"Out  of  apparently  very  abundant  experience  of  life  both  off 
and  on  the  stage,  Mr.  Leacock  has  presented  an  uncommonly 
clever  satire  on  the  modern  problem  play  and  some  short  stories 
of  familiar  happenings  that  are  treated  with  a  delightful  sense  of 
humor." — Baltimore  Sun. 

NONSENSE  NOVELS 

"A  knack  of  story  telling,  a  gift  of  caricature,  and  a  full  sense 
of  humor  are  displayed  in  these  ten  nonsense  novels. " 

— Washington  Star. 

"Even  the  most  loyal  admirers  of  Sherlock  Holmes  and  his 
marvelous  feats  of  induction  and  deduction  will  hardly  grudge 
a  smile  of  appreciation  to  Stephen  Leacock. " — New  York  Sun. 

"Mr.  Leacock  bids  fair  to  rival  the  immortal  Lewis  Carroll 
in  combining  the  irreconcilable — exact  science  with  perfect  humor 
— and  making  the  amusement  better  the  instruction. " 

—Pall  Mall  Gazette. 


BOOKS  BY  STEPHEN  LEACOCK 


LITERARY  LAPSES 

"This  book  deserves  a  wide  reading,  for  it  is  spontaneous, 
fresh,  and  unforced." — Chicago  Tribune. 

"Philosophic  humor,  amusing  and  bubbling  over  with  the 
froth  of  a  delightful,  good-natured  cynicism." 

—Philadelphia  Public  Ledger. 

"Mr.  Stephen  Leacock  is  not  only  that  very  rare  thing,  a 
humorist,  but  that  still  rarer  thing,  a  humorist  in  high  spirits. 
A  collection  of  good  things  which  will  entertain  any  human 
being  who  appreciates  the  humor  of  high  spirits.  The  sketch 
entitled  'How  to  be  a  Doctor'  no  really  serious  medical  student 
can  afford  to  be  without." — Onlooker  (London). 


SUNSHINE  SKETCHES  OF  A 
LITTLE  TOWN 

"Humor,  unspoiled  by  irony,  satire,  or  even  the  gentlest 
raillery,  characterizes  this  book.  And  few  books  are  more 
suitably  entitled,  for  these  sketches  do  shed  into  the  cracks 
and  crannies  of  the  heart  glorious  sunshine,  the  companion  of 
pure  mirth. "  — Chicago  Record-Herald. 

"Mr.  Leacock's  fun  is  always  good-natured,  and  therefore 
doubly  enjoyable." — New  York  Times. 

"We  cannot  recall  a  more  laughable  book.  "—Pall  Mall  Gasette. 


Arcadian  Adventures 

With  the  Idle  Rich 

BY 

STEPHEN  LEACOCK 

Author  of  "Nonsense  Novels,"  "Sunshine  Sketches,"  etc. 

12mo  Cloth  $1.25  net 


"Mr.  Leacock  is  always  worth  our  while.  He  is  a  sharp- 
sighted,  laughing  philosopher."  — New  York  Tribune. 

"  Whoever  reads  it  must  laugh,  particularly  if  he  reads  it  aloud." 

— Boston  Evening  Transcript. 

"He  is  able  to  analyse  subjects  that  loom  large  in  our  public 
life  and  to  illuminate  the  weak  points  in  them  with  flashes  of 
satire  which  are  the  more  telling  in  that  they  are  entirely  good- 
natured.  .  .  The  characters  are  deliriously  conceived. " 

— New  York  Evening  Post. 

"Crisp  conversation  and  paragraphs  jammed  with  American 
sarcasm  of  the  gilt-edged  variety.  .  .  Mr.  Leacock  penetrates  the 
upper-class  sham  and  satirizes  it  cheerfully.  This  is  almost 
certain  to  generate  little  chuckles  and  long  smiles  from  the  intelli- 
gent proletarian  who  treats  himself  to  these  adventures." 

— Chicago  Evening  Post. 

"Every  one  of  the  sketches  is  clever,  humorous,  but  never 
unkind.  An  analytical  gift  of  character  reading  is  one  of  the 
salient  attributes  of  Mr.  Leacock's  style,  and  his  present  volume 
is  one  that  will  be  seized  with  avidity  and  read  with  delight. " 

— Buffalo  Express. 

"A  master  of  keen,  pointed  satire,  a  lover  of  a  good  laugh,  a 
writer  capable  of  dexterously  holding  up  to  the  light  the  foibles, 
weaknesses,  craftiness  and  guile  of  his  fellow  man  and  woman, 
is  this  Stephen  Leacock,  and  never  before  has  he  exemplified  all 
this  so  patently,  and  withal  so  artfully,  as  in  the  present  volume. " 

— Cleveland  Town  Topics. 


JOHN  LANE  COMPANY,    Publishers,    NEW  YORK 


"By  all  odds  the  most  beautiful  periodical 
printed." — New  York  Tributn. 


The  International 
Studio 


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